


Crossing the Equator

by Notesfromaclassroom



Series: The Academy [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: F/M, Post-modern storytelling, Relationships on the Sly, Run-up to the 2009 Star Trek movie, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-03 07:19:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 69,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notesfromaclassroom/pseuds/Notesfromaclassroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do if the authorities tell you to "cease and desist" in the relationship with the one you love?</p><p>This is the story of what two sets of lovers decide to do.</p><p>Technically this is a sequel to "People Will Say," but you don't need to read that first in order to understand what is happening here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Maiden Voyages

**Chapter One: Maiden Voyages**

**Disclaimer: Even the characters I made up aren't mine. They demanded their liberty at birth.**

"If you don't have anything good to report," Chris Pike says, "don't come in here."

Natalie Jolsen pauses midstride and leans into the doorframe of Chris' office. Immediately Chris shifts in his chair behind his desk, his shoulders squared as if he is prepared to block an attacker.

So he _is_ worried. All that talk last night about being confident that Spock's disciplinary hearing would be a cakewalk...

 _Bluster_. Natalie narrows her eyes and crosses her arms.

"Suit yourself," she says, watching Chris watch her. A slight crease between his brows signals his genuine concern. With a sigh, Natalie gives up the pretense and walks on into the room.

"I have to work on my poker face," she complains, and Chris relaxes visibly into his chair.

"Stop trying," he says, nodding in her direction—a familiar mannerism he falls into when he's feeling magnanimous.

"It went like you said it would," Natalie says, slipping into the chair facing the desk. "Cogley dismantled their argument, they had to admit the charges weren't proven, and they slapped Spock on the wrist anyway, just because they could."

This morning Natalie had sat quietly in the back of the small auditorium in Starfleet's administrative building watching Samuel T. Cogley, long time friend and lawyer from Starbase 11, convince nine judges that Commander Spock's admitted relationship with his student aide did not rise to the level of fraternization. To do so, Spock would have had to show some favoritism or coerce his aide into an unwanted liaison.

Admiral Komack, in particular, had been relentless in his questioning, but in the end, the judgment went in Spock's favor.

"What'd I tell you? So everything's good."

"Define _good_."

"Don't start that," Chris says, tapping his stylus on the desk. "You sound like a goddam Vulcan."

"They told him to cease and desist his relationship with the cadet," Natalie says. She darts a glance at Chris.

"Like I said, everything's good. That little fling is over. We go back to getting ready for the launch."

Natalie says nothing and waits. Patience is not one of Chris' virtues, and as she expects, he jumps into her silence.

"Right?" he says, and this time she shrugs.

"I don't know," she says. "I think the Commander would object to your calling it a fling. It looks more serious to me."

"You think everyone is more serious than they are," Chris says quickly, tipping back his chair.

Natalie looks down at her hands and swallows.

_They've had that conversation before._

"It's just that they were really…familiar…with each other in Leiden," she says, keeping her voice steady. "When we saw them at dinner—before the explosion. And then later—"

Spock had been invited to present his language acquisition program at the Feynman Conference in Leiden and found himself in the middle of a violent protest by anti-alien xenophobes calling themselves Earth United. When one detonated a sonic grenade, Spock rushed it from the crowded ballroom and was mildly injured.

Natalie had seen his aide bullying her way past the security detail when Spock was being attended to by the medics. Something was there—some… _tenderness_ …that was more than simple concern, something more entrenched, more permanent than a mere sexual dalliance.

In frustration, Natalie gives up trying to put words to what she thinks she saw. Chris is clearly skeptical anyway. Nothing she says will change his mind. He has to see things for himself to really believe them, a trait that is both endearing and exasperating.

"Well," Chris says, letting his chair bang forward, slapping his hands on his desktop, "whether they're serious or not, he's been warned. He'd be stupid to continue."

That's true, of course. Natalie doesn't disagree, but Chris' easy dismissal makes her pause.

_Stupid to continue._

Easy for Chris to say.

No, not really. She knows him better than that. _Easier,_ maybe, than it is for her. But not _easy_.

Chris pulls his PADD across his desk and taps it with his stylus. He's ready to move forward. If she brings up any more of her doubts—her observation, for instance, made accidentally as she was leaving the hearing, that Cadet Uhura and Spock left the grounds in the same flitter—he will get irritated.

At some level she knows she withholds that information to protect Chris, to let him bask in his relief that he hasn't lost his first officer after all—but she also realizes that she is protecting Spock as well. And from what? She isn't sure.

"Cogley already leave?" Chris asks, and Natalie shakes her head.

"I told him you'd want to at least have a drink first," she says. She darts a glance at Chris as he fidgets with his PADD and says, "For old times' sake."

If she thought Chris wasn't paying her much attention, she's immediately surprised. He flicks his eyes straight at her and gives her _the look_ , the one that says he can see through her.

_I know what you are up to._

It's what makes working with him such a rush.

Among other things.

"Call him," Chris says. "Let's take him to dinner before he gets away."

"Can't," Natalie says, shifting in her chair, looking down at one shoe, bending her ankle back and forth, consigning Chris to the edge of her attention. "Eric invited some people over tonight. I've got to get home early."

"Your friends or his?"

She looks up then and meets Chris' gaze.

"His."

"Then you don't need to be there. Call him and tell him we are celebrating tonight. Hell, I'll call him if you want me to."

"Forget that," Natalie says with a small smile. "I can take care of myself, thank you very much."

"I never said you couldn't," Chris says, pushing his PADD to the side on the desktop and leaning forward. His sudden intensity startles Natalie and she pulls away.

For a moment they are both still, and then Chris sits back. Natalie recognizes this for what it is—his way of giving her room, of acknowledging the space—physical and emotional—that they've erected between them.

In the distance Natalie hears a door slam and someone start down the hall. An air filter rattles a staccato tattoo in the ceiling. If she listens closely, she can hear her wrist chronometer ticking like an old-fashioned clock, the sound programmed in as a bit of anachronistic whimsy.

She _could_ call Eric and tell him she'll be late. He's good that way, accepting her odd hours and rarely getting upset with changes in her schedule.

Still, the couple coming over are Eric's best friend and his pregnant wife, and bailing out on them feels inconsiderate.

And it's not like she doesn't enjoy their company. Both are visual artists who have the rare ability to articulate what they do to someone like Natalie, a number cruncher at heart, someone who understands aesthetics in theory but finds art galleries an odd place to spend an afternoon.

Focusing on colors, on texture, on shape—well, it feels so inconsequential on a piece of canvas.

As details about a starship, on the other hand—

Natalie turns her wrist so she can see the face of her chronometer. 1523—a bit early for a drink. On the other hand, they are celebrating. At least now she won't have to start back at square one looking for someone to keep an eye on Chris when the _Enterprise_ launches.

For that's what Spock will do, she's certain—call out Chris when he needs calling out, the way she's always been fearless about doing.

"I might be able to get away for a little while," she says, and Chris' face erupts into smiles and lines.

"That's my Nat," he says, starting to stand up.

"But only for a drink," she amends quickly, and Chris' smile dims briefly.

"Well, if that's all I can have—"

He lets his words drift off and Natalie feels the familiar flush—the heat rushing to her face when she lets her thoughts stray into what can't be.

Not that she doesn't love her husband.

And she really does want to start a family with him.

But her feelings for Chris are like bedrock, forged by the crucible of all they've endured, solid, so that everything since has been sand.

Most of the time she doesn't think about it—at least not consciously.

But Spock's hearing has unsettled her and left her bereft in some way, almost as if she has lost something dear, which, she thinks later, she supposes she has.

"Let me see if he's even available," she says too loudly, standing up and moving toward the door of the office. "Otherwise I'll head on home."

Before Chris can say anything else she pulls out her comm. Samuel Cogley answers right away and agrees to meet them at a bar near headquarters.

"Just one drink," she says as they make their way down the hall. "I bet Cogley is antsy to catch a flight home anyway. You remember how he is about traveling."

Chris hums his assent—and Natalie can't help but laugh. Of all the people she knows, Samuel Cogley is the biggest homebody. That he came all the way from Starbase 11 to help with Spock's defense is a testament to their history.

Like many of her friendships, this one harks back to her earliest days in Starfleet. She and Chris met Cogley when their ship, the _USS Tiberius_ , lay over Starbase 11 for repairs after the warp core went critical and Captain April was fatally wounded trying to rescue the trapped crewmen on deck five—

Better not to dredge up those memories, not when she's poised to leave Starfleet, not when Chris is busy getting the _Enterprise_ ready. He can't afford the distraction, and she is afraid that her resolve will waver—she, the lover of routine, the steadiest person she knows, Polaris.

X X X X X X X

If Natalie believed in omens, she would have transferred off the _USS Tiberius_ the first day.

A computer glitch kept the quartermaster from being able to find her in the ship's complement, leading to a humiliating 20 minutes of standing awkwardly in the shuttle hangar deck, her duffel in hand, while other arriving crew members dodged around her.

When her name was finally located, she was sent off rather abruptly with few directions to her quarters. Although she had studied the technical layouts of the _Tiberius_ before boarding, actually walking the corridors was quite another matter. Not for the only time that day she found herself completely turned around, coming up suddenly to a dead end or ending up on a different deck than she intended.

As a lieutenant she expected to share quarters but she was surprised when she opened her cabin door and found half of the room full of stacked boxes. When she finally spoke to the deck officer, he told her that she was, in fact, sleeping in one of the supply closets.

"We're pressed for space," he said, looking past her shoulder, "but don't worry. Most of the stuff stored in there is for medical. The docs are good about giving a heads up when they need to come get something."

And then there was the first officer.

She ran into him—literally—as she made her way back to her cabin after picking up an armload of uniforms and bedding. Her vision partially blocked and her sense of direction completely wonky, she turned a corner and plowed into him, dropping everything onto the floor.

He was not amused.

"I hope you aren't our new navigator," he said as Natalie scrambled to gather up her things. The officer, she noted, did not offer to help.

"Lieutenant Natalie Jolsen," she said, standing up and getting a good look at him for the first time. Tall and broad-shouldered, the officer wore his dark hair a shade beyond regulation length. His hazel eyes bored into her. "Records officer," she added.

"Be more careful in the future," the first officer said, more gruffly than was necessary, Natalie thought. She narrowed her eyes enough in irritation that he noticed.

"You have a problem with that?" he said, and she blushed furiously.

"No, Commander," she said, looking intently at the metal plating on the floor that oddly enough didn't open up and swallow her whole.

"Commander _Pike_ ," he said, and Natalie felt herself flush again at the rebuke.

"Commander Pike," she said, darting a glance up at his face.

His eyes flicked quickly to hers and then he was gone, brushing past her and down the corridor. Taking a deep breath, Natalie stumbled forward until she found the door to her cabin.

The next two days were a blur—settling in, an opening assembly led by Captain April, and the scramble to sort out her work schedule and balance it with the required physical training.

"I chose this," she often said aloud when the door to her cabin slid shut behind her at the end of her shift and she sank exhausted into her bunk.

Her work as records officer wasn't that different from what she had been doing at headquarters in the personnel department, a job she had taken immediately upon graduation from the Academy. It was interesting enough, but six months in she knew she would eventually get bored and she had applied for a starship post.

The _Tiberius_ was a Nebula class ship with a complement of 240, though it had been designed to carry 200. The scheduled decommissioning of two different types of ageing science vessels and heavy cruisers meant that the newer ships such as the _Tiberius_ were running above capacity—something Natalie thought about every day as she dickered with Starfleet in her communiqués.

Yes, of course she realized that requesting 14 metric tons of foodstuffs was a ton over the allotment for a Nebula class ship. Yes, she knew that the payroll showed an excessive disbursement of shore leave days. Why didn't the Earth-bound accountants understand that the ship was over capacity at Starfleet's direction?

The red tape was maddening.

She saw the captain rarely—two staff meetings in the first week and a half—but she saw Commander Pike so often that she began to think he was seeking her out.

"Jolsen," he might say, bringing his tray to the table and sitting across from her in the mess hall. "See if you can requisition us something better than this reconstituted protein."

Or he might drop into her office off the engineering section and ask her to run some numbers for him—the total number of sick days taken by the maintenance crew since the launch, for example.

"You know you can get that information yourself through your access to the records link," she told him one day, and he frowned and rubbed his hand along his jaw.

"What's your point?"

"I mean," she said, "you don't have to run down here when you need something. You can call it up on your own PADD. Your clearance is higher than mine."

For a moment he stood in place, his hazel eyes unmoving, until she was forced to look away.

"I could," he said at last, "but this is faster. I don't have time to deal with a damfool computer."

He stood up straighter as if his completely illogical—and frankly mystifying—comments settled the matter. Natalie decided not to say anything and in another moment he pivoted around and left.

Somehow when she had envisioned traveling among the stars, she had something more exotic in mind than the steady distant rumble of the ship's engines underscoring everything. The gentle shiver was there all the time—like the pulse of the ship. After a few days Natalie was no longer consciously aware of it, but once during delta shift she had woken from a deep sleep in a panic, her hand flying to her chest. The ship, she realized, had stopped—the engines throttled back until the heartbeat of the _Tiberius_ was almost imperceptible.

As soon as the official shakedown was over, Captain April announced the date for the crossing the line ceremony. Shrouded in rituals handed down from the days of sailing ships, the ceremony had at one time been a way of christening novice sailors when they sailed over the equator.

Now it was reserved for crew members on their first space faring voyage, and while Natalie knew that the hazing prevalent in the seagoing days was discouraged, she understood the subliminal sexual overtones associated with it—and the temporary blurring of the lines of rank and privilege.

These days instead of walking a gauntlet of abuse, a pollywog—still the name given newbies- might disappear for an hour or two with an experienced crew member of his choosing—a shellback—returning looking either inebriated or sated.

She dreaded the ceremony on principle.

It was a disruption in routine—and she liked routine. Things ran better when they were organized—and the revelry associated with turning wogs into shellbacks was not only silly but unproductive.

She made the mistake of mentioning her concern to the only other person in the records office, a woman who had graduated a year earlier than Natalie and joined the _Tiberius_ after getting an advanced degree in computer repair.

"What a grouch!" Jenna said, and Natalie bristled.

"If it weren't mandatory I wouldn't care," she said, and Jenna laughed.

"No one's forcing you to attend," she said. "But you'll miss all the fun."

The ceremony wasn't mandatory? That was news. Natalie felt her mood lift.

The night before the crossing the line ceremony, Natalie noticed a flagged message when she turned on her PADD.

 _Your presence is requested at the Pollywog Mutiny,_ the note said. _Ship's Lounge, 2200._

With a sigh she deleted the message and continued making preparations for bed.

At 2220 her door chime sounded.

"Lights," she said, shuffling the thin blanket from her legs and hurrying to open the door.

There stood Commander Pike, his arms crossed.

"You're late," he said.

"I'm off duty," Natalie said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. "Sir."

"Don't tell me what I already know," the commander said, a frown creasing his brow.

Before she could stop herself, Natalie blurted out, "Likewise."

Commander Pike's face turned red.

"I'm sorry," Natalie said quickly. "It's just that I understood that the…frivolity…was optional."

For a moment the commander said nothing but Natalie could see the muscles of his jaw twitching. He was clearly angry—and she felt her own anger rise in response. After all, she was the one whose rest was being interrupted, who was being badgered to participate in something that didn't interest her at all—on her own time.

He had no right to be angry. She had every reason to be.

"Perhaps no one explained to you," Commander Pike said, each word punctuated, "the importance of camaraderie on a starship."

"Permission to speak freely, sir."

"By all means."

His eyes were still narrowed, his voice low. Natalie chose her words carefully.

"While I appreciate the importance of camaraderie," she said, "I was unaware that the crossing the line ceremony was the only opportunity I would ever have for fellowship with my crewmates."

"Are you being sarcastic, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir."

She was almost as surprised as he was to hear the words slip out. His mouth dropped open and he expelled his breath in a loud _huh_.

A minute passed, then two.

Natalie shifted from one foot to the other, growing chilled and wishing she had put the blanket around her shoulders before opening the door. Here she stood in her regulation pajamas…

"Let's start over," Commander Pike said at last. "You do know that the crossing the line ceremony is of great historical significance."

"I do."

"And it involves two days of …what did you call it? Frivolity?"

"Yes, sir."

"Your fellow wogs are busy at this moment executing their friendly mutiny of the ship—when they tap the officers and relieve them of duty for the rest of the evening. You know you were expected to help with that, right?"

"As I said, I thought I would have other opportunities for fun and games," Natalie said, but for the first time she began to have some doubts. The officers were to be relieved of duty for the evening during a mock mutiny? No one told her that. That explained why Pike came to fetch her. The officers were looking for the night off.

"And I suppose you intend to miss the fun and games tomorrow as well," Pike said, and Natalie hesitated.

"I wasn't aware—"

"Jolsen," Pike said, his voice signaling the end of the conversation, "sometimes you get only one chance at something. I think you just blew yours."

Only later, after he swung away hard, his footfalls echoing down the corridor, after she resettled herself in her bunk, her blanket pulled to her chin, had she wondered if he meant something else, some other sort of crossing the line.

X X X X X X X

The first thing Nyota wants to do when she enters Chris Thomasson's apartment is take a hot bath.

She doesn't, however. Spock's cousin has set out a canister of teas and a note on how to work the temperamental kettle—an invitation that she feels compelled to accept.

While she fills the kettle, Spock brings in their bags from the flitter and adjusts the temperature of the sitting room. By the time the water boils, the room is warm and a cup of tea on the sofa is more appealing.

For long moments neither speaks. Instead, they sit close but not touching, each cradling a tea mug, both lost in their thoughts.

Humans take this sort of privacy for granted, but Nyota finds it unsettling when she is with Spock. When they are together, they almost always move swiftly to touch the other, physically and mentally. Sitting alone with her own thoughts this way—even in companionable silence—is lonely.

She finishes her tea first and gets up to return her mug to the kitchen. When she returns, from the corner of her eye she feels Spock watching her as she moves slowly about the living area, looking closely at the scattered objects Chris has on display.

"Who's this?" she says, lifting up a one-dimensional photograph in an old-fashioned frame for his inspection.

"Grandmother Grayson," he says, taking a sip of his tea.

"The one who was so hard on you?"

Both Spock and Chris have told stories that featured their grandmother—a formidable woman whose disapproval of her grandchildren is what they recall of her years after her death. Why Chris would have her picture on his sideboard is a mystery. Nyota makes a mental note to ask him when she sees him—Sunday, she thinks, when they take the flitter back to San Francisco.

Chris' plan in coming to San Francisco today was always to turn over his flitter and his apartment in Seattle to Spock and Nyota for the weekend, regardless of the outcome of the hearing. The not guilty verdict means that the weekend will be joyful—can, in fact, be a welcome respite from the tension of the past few weeks since Spock received the summons.

Yet as she circles around the room, leaning closer to a large piece of obviously hand-crafted pottery and running her fingers along the ridges, sidling up to the single oil painting in the room, Rachel's work, apparently, her signature prominent in the corner, Nyota feels a ghost of concern, and turning suddenly, she catches Spock unaware, an uncharacteristic look of exhaustion on his face.

Instantly she is abashed.

She almost never sees him tired or even visibly distressed, at least not so most people can tell, and she realizes that she's done what she despises in others—fallen into the assumption that because he is a Vulcan he is sturdy, invincible—instead of seeing him as the individual he is.

Moving quickly to the sofa, she takes his empty mug from his hand and sets it on the little side table. Then she perches beside him, slipping off her boots and tucking her feet under her. She leans forward to kiss him and senses his reticence at once—not that he pulls away or resists her, but he does not sway into her as he usually does, his fingers slipping to the back of her neck.

More often than not she's the one who initiates their intimacies, and he's always been willing to follow her lead—enthusiastic, even, drawing out their lovemaking at times almost beyond her endurance.

It occurs to her now that he might need that sense of control after the humiliations of the day—standing before the judges on public display, helpless to do anything but answer their insistent questions.

She stretches back and waits, his eyes still on her.

In the late afternoon light filtering through the window she sees how sallow he is, and without warning she remembers the time he lay unconscious in the hospital after the hover bus crash, too sedated to slip into a healing trance until she had slid her hand in his and sensed him struggling to recover.

Perhaps she can help him now?

Holding out her hand, palm up, she beckons him. He glances down and rests his hand in hers.

Instead of the familiar snap and tingle of his mind racing towards hers, she feels…nothing.

No, not nothing, for he is there—but distant and hazy, like trying to sort out someone's features across a foggy commons.

 _What do you want_ , she calls, but the same misty fog rolls in and she struggles to understand what he is feeling.

 _What do you want_ , she asks again, and this time he shows her his confusion, how discovering, how articulating what he _wants_ requires more energy than he can muster.

"Do you want some dinner?" she says aloud, but Spock closes his eyes briefly and she knows he isn't hungry, that the idea of eating tires him.

His exhaustion begins to weary her as well—the jumble of his memories from earlier that afternoon when he walked with her through the _Enterprise_ , the cease and desist notice from the hearing board still rankling him.

 _If we continue_ , he told her, _you could lose the ship_ , and she sees now the immense relief he felt when she shook her head.

Of course they would not cease and desist.

She had never taken that possibility seriously.

Under the jumble of his thoughts she sees what weighs on him now, the very real possibility that the months stretching ahead of them before she graduates will be so constrained as to be almost unbearable—now that they have been warned, now that there is no question that they will be watched.

Not just watched, he amends. _Scrutinized._

Yes, she thinks, and her heart sinks. His apartment and the privacy it seemed to afford will certainly be off limits. Communication of any kind will be problematic.

Her shoulders slump as she begins to feel what he feels—that they have set sail across an unfriendly ocean with no place to hull in a storm, the land on the horizon so far away as to be beyond imagining.

It is, she realizes, as if they have sailed into another hemisphere.

She shivers then—and realizes that it is his chill she feels. With a start she hops up and walks down the short hallway to Chris' bedroom. What she sees there makes her smile.

At the foot of his bed are five or six thick blankets and quilts folded neatly, piled high, an unmistakable gesture of love and care.

She takes a moment to run her hand across each one. Some are almost furry, the nap so thick that it tickles her fingers. One of the quilts is an obvious machine-sewn knock off, but the other one is clearly handmade, the batting inside nobby and buckled, the seams of the pinwheel design appealingly uneven.

Nyota picks it up and walks to the window, holding it to the light to better see the intricate stitches. Who made it? Surely not Grandmother Grayson. She doesn't seem like the type of woman who would have had enough patience to cut and sew a quilt.

She adds the question to her growing list of things she wants to talk to Chris about when she sees him.

For now she gathers up the quilt in her arms and walks back to the living area.

Even from this angle she can tell that Spock is asleep. Anyone else would have been sprawled across the couch, snoring perhaps, but Spock asleep is as self-contained, as restrained, as Spock awake. His arms are crossed over his torso, his head turned slightly to the side, his eyelashes fanned darkly against his pale cheeks.

The view is a rare one and she stands for a moment, unwilling to risk waking him. Finally, however, she slides the quilt over him and holds her breath.

He doesn't stir.

On one hand she knows that she could run her hand across his ear until he wakes, aroused and ready to follow her to the bedroom. The idea is tempting—she's certainly spent time imaging just that since they left San Francisco.

But what she wants is not what he needs—or even what she needs right now.

That old division between wants and needs—at the end of the day, needs always win.

She shouldn't have confused him by asking what he wants. He's too tired to know, too shamed by the admission he's had to make before an audience that he's let his emotions determine his actions.

When he wakes she'll ask him what he needs instead. She won't make that mistake again.

**A/N: This story picks up where "People Will Say" left off, immediately after Spock's disciplinary hearing. I think I've given enough background in this story so that you don't have to read PWS first to understand "Crossing the Equator"—at least, that was my intent!**

**This story tells two different stories and 'ships yoked together. My plan is to tell what Chris Pike and Natalie Jolsen are doing in the current ongoing timeline—as well as how Spock and Uhura's relationship is evolving during that same time. The stories are connected by the backstory for Chris and Natalie—my voyeuristic peak at their own "maiden voyage."**

**Embarking on a new fiction is always both thrilling and frightening….so thanks for letting me know how this one strikes you so far.**


	2. Semaphores

**Disclaimer: The OCs are mine, but nobody else is—and even the OCs are contrary about it.**

"Ah, Commander," Chris Pike says, "have a seat."

He motions to Spock to sit in the chair facing the desk. In the corner of the office is one empty chair where Natalie usually stations herself. Chris glances longingly at it now.

For a moment they sit in silence and then Chris says, "So, I guess you've been wondering why I wanted to see you."

"No, sir."

Spock's reply, like so many things that he says, takes the wind completely out of Chris' sails. What had Natalie warned him earlier?

_Don't waste your time with idle chitchat with Spock._

Once again Chris realizes that ignoring Natalie's advice is stupid. He won't make that mistake again.

"I see," Chris says, pursing his lips and looking at the small screen on his PADD. Of course Spock hasn't been wondering why he wanted to see him. He's either figured out why or he is content to wait. "Engineer Olson has filed a complaint about the materiel shipping schedule you arranged. He says he spoke to you about it to no avail."

At that Chris looks up but Spock doesn't blink. Instead, he gazes at Chris steadily, as if waiting for something more interesting to happen. Chris feels an instant spike of irritation. Despite Natalie's warning, he says, "Am I boring you, Commander?"

This time Chris notes a flicker in Spock's expression. Surprise? Annoyance? It disappears almost immediately.

"Boredom is an emotion I experience rarely," Spock says, and before he can stop himself, Chris mutters, "Bully for you."

Where is Natalie when he needs her?

With a hurried motion he thumbs through several PADD screens until he finds the one he wants, a schematic of the engineering section of the _Enterprise_ with a spreadsheet showing the construction schedule. He's tired of looking at it—first with an angry Greg Olson spluttering about the office and then with Natalie, who suggested he call Spock in.

"This," he says, placing his finger on the screen, "is the timeline you arranged for the shipment of transparent aluminum for the turbine tubing. This," he says, moving his finger a fraction, "is when the construction crew needs it. As you see, the dates are out of sync. Your schedule will idle the construction crew for two days."

Spock barely looks at the screen and Chris feels another flash of annoyance. Isn't he paying any attention?

"Commander," Chris says, not trying to keep the impatience from his voice, "you see the problem. What I don't understand is why you haven't fixed it since Engineer Olson brought it to your attention."

"The schedule does not need to be fixed," Spock says, his brows creased slightly.

At that Chris does lose his patience. He never should have called Spock in for a conference when Natalie couldn't be here to run interference. This doesn't bode well for later, when Natalie leaves the service for good and he has to deal with his Vulcan first officer on his own.

"Commander," he says, taking a breath, "are you deliberately trying to provoke me? Because if you aren't, you're doing a damned good job of it anyway."

"Captain," Spock says, "these specifications are two months out of date on this schematic. I altered the specifications for the transparent aluminum being used for the turbine assembly. It requires structural supports not currently installed in engineering because of its increased tensile strength. The construction crew will not be idled but will be reassigned to installing the extra supports."

Spock's delivery is so matter-of-fact that for a moment Chris has trouble following what he is saying. Spock changed the specs on the water turbine? What was this about stronger aluminum?

He should have been told.

"On whose authority was that changed?" Chris asks, his voice a decibel too loud.

"Yours, sir," Spock says evenly. "You indicated that your priority was in procuring the best materials possible. When the new aluminum became available, I authorized the substitution."

 _Simmer down_ , Chris tells himself. With a conscious effort, he takes a breath. Of course Spock was right to get the better aluminum.

His face flushes and he leans back in his chair.

"I see," he says, but if he was expecting some face-saving reassurance from Spock, he is disappointed. "You told this to Mr. Olson?"

"He did not ask."

"He is the chief engineer," Chris says, exasperated again. "He probably needs to know about the change."

"I sent him the new specifications," Spock says. "I assume he looked at them and knew about the change."

_This is unexpected. Then why was Olson making such a fuss—_

And suddenly Chris knows. A gifted engineer, Olson is also a hothead, someone who took an instant dislike to Spock when they were introduced at the first staffing for the _Enterprise_ crew.

Some practical joking had gone on for a time—Chris isn't sure of all the details—but he thought Olson had settled down by now.

Apparently not.

Either Olson was careless or he was trying to cause trouble. Chris doesn't care which—he'll make sure it doesn't happen again.

"Listen, Commander," he says, and Spock sits up a fraction, his head tilting slightly in a way that Chris has already come to associate with his increased attention.

_As if he needed to be any more intense than he usually is._

"There's been some sort of miscommunication that I need to track down. In the meantime, let's grab something to eat and start over."

A definite frown creases Spock's brow then and Chris is nonplussed. Is there some Vulcan taboo about eating together? Or eating midday? If Natalie were here he could ask her on the sly.

She's not, though. Chris rubs his hand on the back of his neck.

"Start over, captain?"

 _Don't be vague when you talk to him,_ Natalie had prepped. _And don't insult him by stating the obvious._

Well, he's just done both. He may never get this right.

"Dammit," Chris says with more irritation in his voice than he really feels, "I'm offering a truce, Spock. Asking forgiveness for not waiting to see your side of things before jumping on your case. Understand?"

He can see that he's just baffled the Vulcan more.

"Oh, never mind," he adds. "I'm hungry, so let's go eat some lunch. You do eat lunch, don't you?"

"Not as a rule," Spock says, but as Chris starts to roll his eyes, he hears Spock hasten to say, "But I can."

That's a start.

The officers' mess in the administration building where Chris has his office is really just a cordoned section of the larger dining area. As he and Spock make their way through the crowd of office staff and noncoms, he notices people turning to look at him.

No, not at _him_. At Spock.

Spock's role in safely detonating a bomb at the Feynman Conference six weeks ago made him a topic of conversation in Starfleet circles. More recent gossip centered around his disciplinary hearing. That, Chris surmises, is the likelier reason for the looks of interest.

Let 'em look, he thinks.

Making their way to the food service area, Chris hears a voice hailing him.

"Go ahead," he tells Spock while he backtracks to a table full of familiar faces.

"Sit and eat with us," a short gray-haired man says, laughing. "Unless you have other company in mind."

Chris has known Dave Prescott since their first year at the Academy when they were sparring partners in their beginning self-defense class. Their competition in class extended to every other area of their lives as well—including one girlfriend both dated for a couple of months before knowing about each other.

After graduation they had headed off on different ships, Prescott to a deep space research sloop and Chris to the _Tiberius_. Two years later when Prescott was named captain of the scout vessel _Ariadne_ , Chris had struggled not to show his disappointment and—as Natalie insisted—his jealousy.

"Be patient," she told him when he sulked over a glass of bourbon after the assignment was posted. "Something else will come your way."

And it had. When Captain April was killed, Chris piloted the _Tiberius_ to Starbase 11 for repairs—and then he piloted her home. Four months later he took her out again, this time as her newly-promoted captain.

To his surprise, six years later when he was tapped as the captain of the _Enterprise_ , Chris hadn't felt what he imagined he would feel—not proud, or excited, or even amazed, but humbled in a way that took him by surprise. For the first time in his life he felt that he would have to work hard to live up to the expectations of him.

"It's about time you acquired some humility," Natalie told him, and he grinned sheepishly, knowing it was true.

Since he was named captain of the flagship, in his dealings with people like Dave Prescott he is able to be…if not exactly magnanimous, at least more understanding. He scoots up a chair to the table.

"What's up?" he asks, and Prescott nods to where Spock stands in line with his tray.

"That's your first officer?"

Something in Prescott's tone is slightly off, marginally disrespectful. Chris looks around at the other officers sitting around the table—three men and a woman—and feels his face flush at their grins.

"Commander Spock," Chris says, starting to rise, but Prescott puts his hand on Chris' arm.

"So I heard," he says. "You know, I sent you two recommendations for that job. Two junior officers due for a promotion. Humans, too. And your own XO deserved a shot. What gives? This guy's just a desk jockey. Doesn't seem fair to pass over experienced officers that way."

Chris has heard the same argument from others since naming Spock as first officer. The first time, he tried to explain his rationale. After that he stopped trying. The decision was his and he owed no one an explanation. Period.

Besides, he suspects that Natalie is right, that what fuels the questions isn't really concern about Spock's level of expertise or experience or even consideration for his competitors but is some sort of latent, unmentionable racism.

_Humans, too—_

Chris had heard it, inserted almost casually, thoughtlessly.

Not all xenophobes are crazy would-be terrorists.

Brushing Prescott's arm from his own, Chris stands.

"Good day, gentlemen," he says, not trusting himself to say more. Prescott reels back as though surprised; the other officers at the table make a show of stifling their smiles.

"I was just asking a question," Prescott says, the picture of wounded indignation. The sham makes Chris furious, and before he can stop himself, he leans into Prescott's face and says, "You better get this straight. The only question you need to ask is how a bigot such as yourself has managed to stay in the service this long."

He waits a beat to make sure Prescott has to look away, and then he turns and steps to the food line, picking up a tray with excessive force and almost skittering it out of his hand. By the time he finds Spock sitting at a small table, Chris is able to breath normally.

"Sorry about that," he says, not looking at Spock, hoping he takes his meaning as a referendum on making him wait and not some apology for any overheard comments.

But no luck. _Damned Vulcan hearing_.

"Captain," Spock says, his hands in his lap, his food untouched, "I…appreciate…what you said…."

"Forget it," Chris says, picking up his fork and then looking up into Spock's face. What he sees there makes him pause.

Instead of the unreadable expression the Vulcan usually presents, Chris sees something else—something more open, more vulnerable. And he hates to admit it, something more _human_ than Spock usually shows.

Is it always going to be this hard, parsing out how to communicate with this man?

Silently he curses Natalie for not being here today, for taking off a day to go house hunting with her husband.

_She'll hate it. She only thinks she wants to settle down._

He sets that thought aside.

"Go ahead and eat," he says, spearing his salad and glancing down at Spock's tray. "If you have time, I want to go over the upgraded specs for engineering with you."

He darts a glance at Spock to make sure he doesn't hear this as a criticism, adding, "To get me up to speed. So I can deal with Greg Olson when he goes off the rails the next time. You have enough to worry about without him breathing down your neck."

X X X X X X X

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

Natalie stood, her hands at her side, at the door to Chris' cabin on the _Tiberius_. It was larger than most other crew quarters and served the dual function as his office. From where Chris sat behind his desk, he motioned to Natalie to take a seat in the only other unoccupied chair in the room.

"Explain this," he said, placing a PADD on the desktop between them.

Watching her closely, Chris noticed her slight frown that quickly turned into a flush. _Good._ At least she had the decency to be upset about what she had done.

"I don't understand," she said, looking up.

_So much for her being upset._

The harsh overhead light made her eyes flat and hard to read.

"You don't understand? You went over my head to the captain to get this approved and you don't understand why I'm angry with you?"

"You're angry, sir?"

"Hell, yes, I'm angry! You can't tell!"

"No, sir. This seems to be your default mode."

Despite the overhead light, or perhaps because of it, her face looked blanched, her expression startled.

For a moment Chris teetered on the balance between genuine fury and admiration for her smartassed humor.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, her hands going to her cheeks. "I didn't mean—"

"Oh, you meant it, alright," Chris said, holding himself expressionless a few seconds more. Then he exploded into laughter, making Natalie jump.

"I like you, Jolsen," he said, and as he did, he realized that he wasn't being rhetorical or flip. He didn't grant many people permission to speak the kind of truth Natalie liked to tell.

"What I _don't_ like is your going to the captain when you should have come to me," he said, leaning forward and pointing to the PADD on the desk. "Not only did you ignore the chain of command, you made me look like a chump. Lieutenant Edgerton could have taken shore leave at Starbase 4 like everyone else. Now I'm short a shuttle _and_ a pilot, and I have two away missions that will have to be postponed when we get to Cestis Three."

"Sir," Natalie said, lowering her hands and rubbing her palms over her thighs, "I would have come to you to explain but we didn't have time. When you denied Lieutenant Edgerton's request to go home, he came to me to see if I could intercede."

"Like I said, we have a scheduled shore leave in ten days. Edgerton could wait."

"No, sir," Natalie said, tucking a strand of errant auburn hair behind her ear. Chris noticed that her face looked slightly damp, as if she had been running. The tip of her ear was bright pink—and he found himself staring as she ran her fingers through her hair again nervously. "He couldn't wait. He's a bone marrow match for his brother, and he got word that his brother's leukemia has returned. Treatment had to start right away."

At that Chris sat back, dumbfounded.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me that? I would have approved his leave immediately. What kind of a jerk do you think I am?"

"Well, not that kind," Natalie said, looking at him from the corner of her eye. "The captain had to approve Edgerton's taking the shuttle anyway. I thought I was saving time by going directly to him. Sir."

She glanced up and Chris had the impression that she wanted to say more but was holding back.

"Look," he said, opening his desk drawer and pulling out the flask he kept there, "you and I keep getting crossways with each other. I'm usually a pretty good communicator, but somehow—"

He raised his eyebrows and unscrewed the top of the flask. Leaning over again, he pulled a package of small disposable cups in a bag from the drawer.

"Here," he said, "pull one of those out for yourself. We need a drink."

"No, thank you, sir," Natalie said, and Chris snorted. "I'm still on duty."

"Suit yourself," he said, taking a swig from the flask and then replacing the top. "I'm trying hard here, Jolsen, but you make it really difficult to be friendly."

"I'm not trying to be difficult," she said, sitting up and crossing her arms in an attitude that broadcast anything but friendliness.

"That's what I'm talking about," Chris protested, waving his hand towards her. Immediately she uncrossed her arms and gripped the sides of her chair instead.

"Forget it! That's even worse."

"Sir—"

"You know," Chris said, "you remind me of a mule I had once."

Unclasping her hands, Natalie looked caught off guard.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. A mule. Thunderbolt. I'd give her an apple, she'd bite me. I'd give her a carrot, she'd bite me harder. Threw me more times than I can remember. Too stubborn to make a good ride. Too ornery to give away."

Unscrewing the flask, Chris watched Natalie's face change from pink to red.

_Good. She'd made his life hard enough lately. A little payback was in order._

"You ever been around mules, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. But I've seen my fair share of asses in my day."

The earlier tension between anger and amusement rose up again.

_He had to give her credit: she was fearless._

Against his better judgment, he chuckled, pulling out a cup from the bag on the desk and pouring into it from his flask.

"Here," he said. "You are now officially off duty. I'll cover the end of your shift for you."

For a moment Natalie didn't move and Chris was sure she would refuse. Then he heard her let out a breath and with a swift motion, she upended the glass.

"Whoa!" Chris called out, and Natalie said, "No wonder you have trouble talking to your crew. All you know are words to use with mules."

At that she set down the glass, stood up, and walked out without looking back.

As stunned as if he had been thrown from an actual mule, Chris sat until he heard the chime for the shift to end.

_Thunderbolt, indeed._

X X X X X X X

Before he enters the Chorale Ensemble practice room, Spock stands for a moment outside the door to make certain that it is unoccupied. The automatic lights are still on but he hears nothing, an indication that the singers were here recently but have left.

In all likelihood, they are assembling behind the curtain on the stage. He has to hurry.

Glancing around the room, he sees a music console in the corner and a large projection board in the front of the room. Risers arranged in an oblique semi-circle face the board. Undoubtedly, musical notes and words are projected on the board for the singers sitting or standing on the risers.

Leaving a message on the board would require turning on the console—and someone might turn it off before Nyota reenters the room. He dismisses that course of action and looks for other possibilities.

It is fortunate—he doesn't say _lucky_ —that he came across the campus notice about tonight's concert. Normally Spock scrolls through the Academy entertainment notices quickly without reading them closely, but earlier in the day the Chorale Ensemble announcement caught his eye.

His thumb had paused over the screen of his comm—

The Chorale Ensemble. Tonight. In Halston Hall.

Nyota would be there.

He has neither seen her nor talked to her since they returned last weekend from Seattle. At some level he realizes that his caution is overblown, that no one is watching them, that Starfleet would not go to the trouble of tracking his comm activity.

And yet.

He can't rule it out. The possibility exists.

Finding a way to communicate feels more urgent the longer he and Nyota are apart. Now that he has given up his office in the language building and spends his only teaching time in the computer science building, Spock has few opportunities to see her during their working hours.

Professor Artura would probably vacate his own office for an hour or two on occasion if Spock asked, but he doesn't want to compromise the Andorian, putting him in a position where he might be tempted to lie later. The building surveillance cameras would record his coming and going, too—and though this also feels like an overblown reaction, Spock is reluctant to do anything suspicious.

On one side of the practice room is a cart where digital music PADDs on stands are stored. Pulling one out and setting it up might draw Nyota's attention when she returns to the room after the concert. The cart, however, is locked, and while Spock is sure he could override the safety, he hesitates.

He is about to leave, resigning himself to hearing Nyota sing without meeting up with her later, when he sees it—an old-fashioned easel with a traditional paper pad propped against the wall.

With a few strokes of the marker, he leaves the first letter of his family signet and underneath it, in a Romulan dialect used only between intimates, the word for _harbor_. Then he places the easel so that anyone coming into the room will see it immediately.

The concert has started by the time he gets to the auditorium. From where he stands in the back of the room, he listens to the Chorale Ensemble perform their various pieces. Most seem to be of human origin, though at least one depends on unfamiliar harmonies that remind him of the indigenous music of the outer ring settlements, and another is in a language he doesn't recognize.

As he often does when he listens to music, Spock allows himself to free-associate, something his first _ka'athyra_ teacher, T'Cara, had suggested.

"Rather than fight your emotions," she told him once when his playing had sounded wooden even to him, "give them room to breathe."

When he looked at her quizzically, she said, "Let your imagination free when you play, and don't censor yourself. If you have a thought, follow it, and let your feelings follow, too."

At the time he had not fully grasped what T'Cara was saying, though he surmised she was counseling him to let go of his obsession with getting the notes _right_.

"Stop worrying about the composer's intention," she said, "and focus on what you want to say with the music."

"But I want to say what is here," Spock said, touching the parchment where the musical notes were inked in.

T'Cara raised one eyebrow and said, "Make it your own, Spock. The notes are an outline only. You have to fill in the meaning."

He needed several more years to rise to that challenge. By the time he left Vulcan for Starfleet, his time with T'Cara had transformed into small private concerts instead of lessons—his teacher sitting forward in her chair with an intensity born of unspoken pleasure as he played music of his own composition.

As he strummed his _ka'athyra_ and twirled the modulator, he imagined scenes from his day—a hike in the dusty red hills behind his house, a quiet conversation with his father, an image of his mother stripping the leaves from large green vegetables and dropping them into a vat of water.

And sometimes he let his music speak of his anger—at the school bullies who muttered comments when he passed, or more hurtful, the things he sometimes heard about his mother when the two of them were out in public together.

"There's the human and her son," someone might say, as if his mother couldn't hear, as if _human_ were an insult, which, he realized, it was.

"No one else plays as you do," T'Cara told him. "You will never be the most accomplished, perhaps, but I find your playing as unique as you are."

The Chorale Ensemble's music calls up images of his recent past—the quiet movements like comfortable moments with Nyota at Chris' apartment in Seattle, the stormier passages forcing him to relive the shame of the disciplinary hearing.

How odd that music can do this.

When the concert ends, he slips out the back door before the applause finishes. Halton Hall is on the east side of the campus near the gate closest to the waterfront, and as he walks across the commons, he hears the concertgoers beginning to exit the building behind him. The chorale members will be in the practice room by now. If Nyota sees his note, if she leaves the hall without extensive conversation with her fellow singers, if she walks at a moderate pace, if she doesn't stop by the deli for something to drink…if, if. She should arrive at the waterfront fourteen minutes later than he will.

An eternity.

He feels an uncharacteristic flash of impatience with the number of variables to factor.

At the waterfront he moves quickly to the bollard at the end of the raised walkway. Short and stubby, the metal bollard is a relic from the days of sailing ships, a way to secure a boat to the shore with a rope. He and Nyota often walk here—or did.

On cloudless nights at certain times of the year, Eridani is visible just over the horizon. When he stands here with Nyota, their fingers intertwined, the star of home where he can see it, he feels as content as he ever does.

Tonight the waterfront is more crowded than usual, and that is a concern. The area near the bollard is in deep shadow, one of the streetlamps nearby completely burned out.

As Spock approaches, he hears the unmistakable sound of lovemaking—soft murmurs and the slip and slide of skin on fabric. Sure enough, a couple are leaning on the railing, embracing, kissing. For a moment Spock hesitates, and then he moves toward them, scuffing his boots on the pavement.

The couple look up and turn toward him—and then, to his satisfaction, they leap apart. Later when he tells this story to Nyota she will laugh and theorize that coming from the shadows he must have looked rather frightening.

"Demonic!" she will say, running her hands over his ears and sending his heart racing.

For now, however, he is simply gratified that they hurry away, leaving the bollard unattended.

He wants to talk to Nyota— _needs_ to talk to her—about so many things, that he is at a loss where to start. The meeting with Captain Pike, perhaps. And what he overheard at lunch.

Or he may wait until later to talk at all, letting his fingers brush her wrist, leading her to the shadows near the bollard, taking up where the aborted lovers left off—

He feels himself growing heated as he imagines holding Nyota around the waist with one arm, her hands stroking his face, leaning into a kiss, his other hand cradling the back of her neck, his mind slipping into hers.

Fourteen minutes later when she still hasn't arrived, he begins to feel something akin to worry. His calculations are obviously inaccurate. She must have stayed to speak to someone—another chorale member, perhaps, or an admirer in the audience.

When another five minutes pass, he feels something closer to despair.

She may not have seen his note after all, or having seen it, decided to ignore it.

And then he spots her crossing the street, making her way from one circle of light cast by the streetlamps to another.

He feels a simultaneous wave of relief and shame—relief that she understood his message, and shame that watching her hips swing from side to side as she picks her way across the uneven stones of the pavement is so sexually arousing that he can hardly think.

When she is twenty meters away she meets his eye and smiles, one arm swinging as she walks, the other lifted to show him something.

A comm.

To be safe they haven't called each other since the hearing. Is she sending a signal that he should have?

"Look what I have," she says, her skin slightly flushed and damp from walking quickly. "Guess what this is."

Small beads of perspiration across the top of her lip reflect the light and make catching his breath a chore. He leans down and runs the tip of his finger from the point where her uniform collar touches her neck up to her ear. Through his fingertip he senses her lingering excitement over the success of the concert and her pleasure at seeing him. He feels her shiver and sees her close her eyes.

"Nyota," he murmurs, but a ground car passing by noisily intrudes and she opens her eyes and takes a step back.

"Guess," she says again, holding up the comm.

"A communicator," he says, baffled that she asks something with such an obvious answer.

"Not just any communicator," she says, sliding one hand in his and sending electric pinpricks up his arm. "A communicator registered to Chris Thomasson."

In the evening shadows he can make out her smile, but the rest of her expression is a mystery. Is she teasing him?

"He gave it to me," Nyota says, "after the concert. Now you can call me when you want to and it will look like you are calling Chris. No one will think anything about it."

"Except," Spock says, feeling his mood lift, "that I have an inordinate fondness for my cousin."

"As I do. Wasn't that kind of him? I had no idea he was coming to the concert. I just mentioned it in passing a couple of days ago—"

To his horror, Spock feels a stab of jealousy so intense that he pulls his hand from Nyota's to hide it from her.

"You saw Chris this week?"

"No," she says, "he called me."

And then, as if she senses his distress, she looks up in his face, lifts her hand to his cheek, and says, "He was worried about you. About us. And he's given us a wonderful gift with this."

She turns her palm upright and shows him the comm, a flat silver rectangle with a dark screen.

"This is our semaphore," she says. "We won't have to sail around lost at sea anymore."

 _That is what this week has been_ , he realizes with a start. _Lost at sea_. As she often does, she coins a metaphor that captures what he thinks, what he feels.

Another wave of shame washes over him, this time for questioning Chris' actions without sufficient data.

From the direction of the east gate, he hears a knot of people starting down the street—cadets, possibly, or someone who might recognize him. Several couples exiting one of the bars facing the waterfront punctuate the other night sounds with intermittent laughter.

With a sudden ache, he realizes that he and Nyota will have to part soon, separately heading back to the campus, their frustrated desire set aside for now. Even a cup of tea in one of the boutique hotel lobbies further down the street seems unlikely.

_Regret is a wasted emotion._

He meditates on that idea often at night in front of his _asenoi_. Any insight he has gained doesn't help him now.

Reluctantly he pulls his hand from Nyota's.

"Not so fast," she says. "I have plans for you."

"That might be unwise," he says, though his curiosity is piqued. The look on her face is playful.

"See that building at the end of the street?"

"The Anchor Hotel."

"Yes, that one. There's a café beside it. We've been there before."

"Eighty-nine days ago. You ordered jasmine tea and an orange scone."

"Uh, yes," Nyota says, "I think I did. Well, go have some tea now."

"I am not thirsty."

"Yes, you are," she says, tugging his arm and moving toward the paved sidewalk that runs along the top of the seawall.

He starts to protest and she stops suddenly and faces him.

"Maybe not for tea, but you are thirsty. So am I."

_Ah, a pun._

"And where will you be while I have tea?"

"I won't be anywhere," she says, and he feels his eyebrows rise. "But when you finish your tea, call Chris."

She holds up the comm and continues walking.

"By then a room will be ready next door," she says over her shoulder.

"At the Anchor Hotel," Spock says.

"Exactly."

"Because we are…thirsty."

"Precisely," she says laughing, "or my name isn't Chris Thomasson."


	3. Lifelines

**Disclaimer: I do not own nor profit from writing about these characters—sadly.**

As soon as the shuttle is airborne, Natalie unhooks her seat restraint and makes her way down the aisle to where Commander Spock is sitting alone. For a moment she stands next to his seat, waiting until he glances at her, and then she slips past his long legs and lowers herself into the window seat.

"Go ahead," she says, motioning to the comm in his hand. She's obviously interrupted a text message he's composing—but he snaps off his comm and puts it in his pocket instead.

Not that she would have been able to read it over his shoulder anyway. Like most people she recognizes some Vulcan vocabulary but not enough to read anything of length. It's a subtle chauvinism that catches Natalie off guard from time to time—the Commander's easy fluency in Standard as well as his first language versus the limitations most humans have, treating Standard as the default without question.

Well, not every human, of course. Cadet Uhura seems to be a talented linguist. Perhaps the text was for her?

Despite what Chris thinks, Natalie is convinced that the Commander has no intention of ending his admitted relationship with the cadet. As long as no one knows, Natalie doesn't care…and neither would Chris, she's sure.

_As long as no one knows._

And that, Natalie realizes, is why she feels compelled to sit with the Commander on the short shuttle hop to The Hague where the Interplanetary Court of Justice is holding preliminary hearings for the five anti-alien terrorists who bombed the Feynman Conference in Leiden two months ago. The hearings will be a trial in more ways than one. Spock can't afford to slip up now while he is in the public eye. A word to the wise…

But how to begin?

Spock is less intimidating than intensely private, and there's the rub. Natalie's never been afraid to take on someone who intentionally intimidates others. Breaching someone's privacy is a different matter.

"I'm sorry," she says, pointing to his pocket where he has stowed his comm. "I didn't mean to interrupt you."

As she expects, Spock says nothing but sits quietly waiting.

Taking a breath, Natalie decides to jump in.

"The conference organizers are talking about rescheduling the sessions that were canceled," she says. "Maybe offering a shorter meeting in January. Would you be interested in attending? To present your lab rotation schedule?"

It's a veiled reference to Uhura, and they both know it. Natalie watches Spock struggle not to react.

"That would depend on how the launch schedule is proceeding," he says, not looking at her. For a beat he hesitates and then says, "Of course, Cadet Uhura could make the presentation unassisted. She knows the program as well as Professor Artura does and almost as well as I do."

From anyone else this would have sounded vain. Natalie knows better. Spock wrote most of the code for the language acquisition program that has been beneficial to students in the lab. No one understands it as well as he does—and false modesty isn't typical of Vulcans. Credit where credit is due. Anything else is illogical or dishonest.

"You know, Commander," Natalie says. She leans toward him a fraction but he tenses up immediately and she backs away. That's just the kind of unconscious body language that gets him in so much trouble with humans. _Prickly bastard_ , she's heard more than one person say. "No one expects you to completely ignore each other. Making a presentation together wouldn't be untoward."

He says nothing but she sees a flash in his eyes—not quite irritation with her, but close.

"I'm not saying," she says, "that appearances don't matter—"

She lets her words drift off, not sure what she's offering. A mild hint to be careful? Reassurance?

He gives her what on anyone else would be a jaundiced look. Now she _is_ annoying him.

Changing directions, Natalie says, "Captain Pike asked me to brief him on the language software updates. You brief me first."

At that Spock relaxes a fraction, hauling up his PADD and scrolling to a screen with columns of dates.

"Professor Carter," he says, "is overseeing the installation of the language identification protocols."

"An Academy professor?"

"Affirmative. Her work with artificial language led her to—"

And he's off. For the remaining fifteen minutes of the shuttle flight, Spock eases into professor mode, explaining a new program that recognizes and sorts unfamiliar languages more quickly and accurately than earlier software.

At Schiphol Air Terminal in Amsterdam, Natalie and Spock make their way from the shuttle to the train for The Hague. Again Natalie follows Spock up the aisle and sits beside him. If he is surprised, he doesn't let on.

When the train starts, they sit in awkward silence.

"Commander," Natalie says at last, speaking so softly that she has to lean into his personal space. _Too bad,_ she thinks, seeing him dart an uneasy glance at her. "If you saw the newsfeeds this morning, you know we might run into some…unpleasantness…at the hearing."

There. She's just done what she's warned Chris not to do—stating the obvious to Spock. Of course he will have followed the newsfeeds. Still, not giving him some heads up about the possibility of Earth United protestors outside the hearing seems unfair.

Or not unfair, but…

She struggles to sort out her need to speak to him about the protestors who have dogged the media since the Feynman Conference. Immediately after the bombing in Leiden they were quiet—though soon enough they began calling for the release of the bombers, their anti-alien bias getting a great deal of play in the media.

Speaking to Spock about the likelihood that they will be stationed outside the Interplanetary Court of Justice at The Hague is not just to warn him but to remind him that he won't have to face them alone.

She'll be there beside him—and Chris close by, already in The Netherlands at a meeting with Starfleet security.

The train is a direct one to The Hague, not even slowing as it passes through the station stop for Leiden. As the sign announcing the Leiden station flies past the train windows, Natalie hears something that surprises her.

Spock lets out an almost inaudible sigh.

_Not so implacable as he seems to be. The memories of the last time he was here—_

The Hague is a few minutes further along the stop, and as she feels herself shoved forward by the braking of the train, Natalie looks out the window, searching for indications of protestors.

Nothing at first, but as the train slows and the station materializes, she sees a small knot of people by the exit waving the usual signs.

_Heritage Matters._

_Don't Give Away Our Humanity._

_Earth United._

She is suddenly shy about making eye contact with Spock, embarrassed about the blatant racism the signs represent.

 _That's not how most people feel_ , she wants to say, but she knows he will dismiss that as an unfounded comment. How can she know? She hasn't polled everyone about their attitudes—cannot, in fact, speak for anyone other than herself.

Walking past the protestors is a gauntlet of sorts, and Natalie wants to stay close to Spock as they do. When the train comes to a full stop, he stands up swiftly and she hurries to follow him down the aisle and out the train.

Their Starfleet uniforms would be enough to attract attention from the crowd, but Spock's alien features are like a magnet. Natalie feels every eye on them as they walk by.

Is this what he feels all the time? Not with such blatant hostility, perhaps, but with open curiosity, whispered commentary, startled looks or hasty movements out of his path?

She hasn't considered that possibility before. It could explain a great deal.

Again she wants to apologize for the xenophobic humans holding signs up at the station—but if Spock notices them, he gives them no overt attention. To her relief, Natalie hears no one say anything directly to them, just an empty echo of the signs they carry.

"Heritage matters!" someone calls, followed by a chorus of "Earth United!"

In another moment she and Spock are at the checkpoint, their IDs scanned by guards who motion them past. In a few more steps they are through the massive front doors of the Interplanetary Court.

"Commander," she says once they are in the relative quiet of the entrance hall, "I just want you to know—"

For the second time that morning words fail her. What was she saying to Chris just last night, that Spock isn't so hard to speak to if you know how?

Glancing up at him, she notes his expression—not as impassive as it normally is, a slight frown on his brow, his lips parted.

"Thank you," he says, and at that, Natalie abandons any attempted reply and simply nods.

X X X X X X X

"That hurt?"

Natalie tried not to flinch as Dr. Sarah April pressed her thumb hard into her wrist. Instead, she focused on the doctor's neatly pinned up gray hair. Despite the harsh overhead light of sickbay, Sarah April looked as she always did, poised and regal, a woman of 60 who did nothing to hide her age and ended up seeming much younger than she was as a consequence.

"How about there?" Dr. April said, flexing Natalie's fingers.

"Some," Natalie admitted, and Dr. April released her hand and picked up her PADD from the examination table.

"Tendonitis," the doctor said, tapping her stylus on the screen. "I'll give you a shot of steroids today, but you need to use the electrical stimulator on it twice a day for a week. I don't have any more portable stimulators so you'll have to do it in sickbay. Twenty minutes at a time should work. You can come by whenever your schedule suits."

Natalie stood up from the examination table and rotated her wrist experimentally while Dr. April applied a hypo.

"Thanks, doctor," Natalie said, taking a step toward the door.

"I'll write you out of physical training for a week," the doctor said, and Natalie stopped and swiveled around quickly.

"Oh, no," she said. "That's not necessary."

Dr. April raised one eyebrow.

"And when did you get your medical degree?"

"It's just that I don't think—I mean, I don't want Commander Pike to think I'm being a goldbrick."

"A what?"

"You know, someone who can't handle…things."

"He won't think that," Dr. April said, her tone suggesting finality. "I don't write people out of PT unless they need it."

Taking a step closer to the doctor, Natalie said, "I didn't mean to imply that you would—it's just that the Commander and I don't exactly see eye to eye on…anything. He'll use this as an excuse to give me a hard time—"

Dr. April frowned and motioned Natalie to the chair nearest the desk at the side of the room.

"Doesn't sound much like the Chris Pike I know," Dr. April said. Natalie darted a glance at the doctor who was settling into the chair behind the desk. With a barely suppressed sigh, Natalie sat down.

"Yeah, well, we got off on the wrong foot."

"So get on the right one."

Dr. April folded her hands in front of her on the desk top, her dark gray eyes never drifting from Natalie's face.

"I can't," Natalie said, beginning to feel annoyed. It wasn't her fault that Commander Pike singled her out for negative attention. If he didn't want to hear what she had to say about something, he shouldn't ask her. If he didn't like how she did something, he shouldn't insult her when he corrected her. So much for professionalism. Commander Pike was holding a grudge—had held one ever since that silly crossing the equator ceremony Natalie had skipped out on.

Dr. April didn't move.

"I know it sounds petty," Natalie said, "but the Commander and I have trouble…communicating. Every time we talk, we end up getting in an argument."

Still the doctor sat, unmoving. Natalie felt a spike of irritation. Explaining herself this way was both uncomfortable and unfair, implying, as it did, that she was somehow the reason for the problems with the Commander.

Finally Dr. April sat back and said, "Where'd you grow up?"

"Pardon me?"

"Where'd you grow up? You know, where'd you live as a kid? With your parents and your pet gerbil?"

Natalie was so flustered by the sudden turn in the topic that for a moment she couldn't think what to say.

"Uh, Chicago. Or near there."

"City girl, then."

"Yes—"

"Family? You come from a big one?"

Again Natalie was at a loss. Where was this going?

"Two sisters."

"You're oldest?"

"Yes."

"Ah."

"What does that mean— _ah_?"

Dr. April leaned all the way back in her chair and said, "Chris Pike has a younger brother. You're both used to bossing younger sibs around."

"I didn't boss my sisters—"

"Really? Then you would be the first older sibling in the history of humanity not to."

"You're saying that I'm bossy and he's bossy. And that's why we keep getting crossways."

"Yes."

"That's too simple."

"Why?"

"You don't know everything that's gone on."

At that Dr. April raised her eyebrow again and Natalie felt herself flush.

"What do you mean?" the doctor said, a new note of concern creeping into her voice.

What _did_ she mean? Natalie wasn't at all sure she could put it into words—the odd tension she felt around the Commander—some sort of heat that she wasn't sure she was imagining, or worse, projecting onto him.

It was all very confusing.

And, she realized, it loosened her tongue around him, made her strike out first, to keep him at a distance.

Could the doctor be right after all? Here she had been blaming him all this time….

No. He _picked_ on her.

She felt so foolish, so childish even thinking the words _. Picked on her_ , like he was her older brother indeed.

"I'm probably too blunt," Natalie said, meeting the doctor's eyes. "But he seems to—"

"Like it?"

The doctor's words caught Natalie by surprise.

"No! I was going to say he seems to _need_ it. Everyone else is afraid to say anything."

"I see," the doctor said, the ghost of a smile curling around her lips. "Well, I'm not afraid of him, and I'm writing you out of PT for a week. "

Natalie started to protest but the doctor's expression was set.

"You know, lieutenant," Dr. April said, "Chris Pike isn't quite the hardass you think he is."

Again Natalie started to protest and again the doctor gave her no room to.

"He might be a little abrupt—but he's not a bad guy."

"I never said—"

"He's just gruff because he's a farm boy. Grew up raising horses somewhere in California."

"He mentioned mules," Natalie said wryly, and Dr. April shot her a glance.

"His parents were killed right before he was supposed to leave for the Academy. He petitioned to delay entry for two years until his brother finished secondary school. That's how Robert met him. Starfleet normally won't defer that long, but Robert thought he had potential. So he agreed to sponsor Chris."

Natalie knew that Robert April, the captain of the _Tiberius_ , had served on two large multi-generation ships with his wife before the destruction of the _Kelvin_ shuttered that program and Starfleet committed to smaller ships. Over the course of a long career, he'd mentored many young officers, Chris Pike apparently among them.

The debate over families serving together still surfaced regularly—though Natalie wasn't sure how she felt about it. On one hand, keeping families together made sense. On the other hand, it could lead to complications in the chain the command.

"What happened to his parents?" Natalie asked, but Dr. April shrugged.

"A fire? I'm not sure. I don't think I've ever talked to him about it."

The doctor stood up and Natalie followed her to the door of sickbay.

"You could, though," Dr. April said.

"What?"

"Ask him about his parents. He might appreciate the chance to talk about them."

"Oh, I don't think I could," Natalie said quickly, and Dr. April pursed her lips and crossed her arms.

"Thought you weren't afraid of him."

"I'm not! But we aren't…friendly enough to talk about anything personal."

"I see," the doctor said, turning and heading back into the large examination room. "Remember, twice a day on the electric stimulator, and no PT for a week. Otherwise you're going to make it worse."

Natalie rubbed her wrist and swiveled around to head down the hall.

And there he was, the first officer, looking none too happy to see her.

For a split second Natalie considered reversing course and heading in the opposite direction, but before she could, Commander Pike called out.

"Lieutenant," he said, and she slowed her steps and waited until he was only a few feet in front of her. "I've been trying to reach you."

Feeling her face flush, Natalie fished her comm from her pocket. Had she turned it off by accident?

But it was on. She held it up to show the Commander the glowing green active indicator.

"You didn't call," she said.

"I went by your office. Where were you?"

_That's none of your business._

The words flashed through her mind but she had the sense to stifle them. Yes, she was off duty, and technically she was free, but knowing her whereabouts at all times wasn't unreasonable on a ship. If anyone else had asked her, she would have answered without hesitation.

Something about the Commander brought out the worst in her. Maybe the doctor was right.

"I was in sickbay," she said, meeting his gaze. She saw him blink and frown.

"What's wrong?" he said, and she felt herself squirm under his scrutiny.

_That's none of your business._

Again the words begged to be spoken. Again she bit them back.

"It's nothing," she said, holding up her wrist. "Tendonitis. My wrist is just a little sore—"

Suddenly his warm fingers were around her wrist, his thumb gently probing the bones, the pads of his fingers surprisingly smooth and sure—not at all the calloused hands of a farm boy.

All this went through Natalie's mind in a flash and she tried to pull her wrist away from his hand. Instead, she felt his fingers tighten.

"Wait a minute," he said, looking over her shoulder into the distance as if seeing something in his mind's eye. She felt his fingers press harder and a spike of pain shot up her arm.

"Ow!" she said before she could stop herself, and Chris dropped her hand.

"Yep," he said, "tendonitis. You'll need to rest it. Probably should use the electrical stimulator, too."

Crooking her elbow and massaging her wrist, Natalie said, "Thank you, _doctor_."

"Ice helps," the Commander said without missing a beat.

"The doctor didn't say anything about ice," Natalie said. She paused, listening to the thinly veiled aggravation in her voice. Where was it coming from? The Commander hadn't done anything to deserve her attitude. With a conscious effort, she tried to sound more agreeable. "She prescribed rest. And the electrical stimulator."

"Where is it?"

"Where's the what?"

"The stimulator. You said the doc told you to use it. Didn't you just come from sickbay?"

Suddenly Natalie was tired of the conversation—and she realized, of the familiarity the Commander seemed to feel.

And more than that, the way her heart was racing, for no reason.

She sighed, saying, "All of the portable stimulators are in use. I have to come back to sickbay to use the larger unit there."

"Come with me," Commander Pike said, and without looking back, he pushed past her and strode down the corridor.

For a moment Natalie was afraid he was headed to sickbay—either to check out her claim of injury or to scold the doctor for not having enough equipment. She would have been surprised at neither.

What did surprise her was that he passed sickbay without stopping and headed to the turbolift, pressing the call button before finally looking back at her as she straggled reluctantly behind him.

"Sir, where are we going?" she asked, but the lift arrived before he could answer. Several other crewmembers were already inside and they made room for Commander Pike and Natalie, nodding to them both wordlessly.

When the lift stopped at deck five, Commander Pike led the way out first and Natalie hurried to keep up as he made his way down the corridor. By then she realized that they were heading to his quarters, but she was still unprepared when he stopped suddenly and she almost tumbled into his back.

"Come on in," he said, walking in as the automatic lights flooded the room.

Natalie took a tentative step inside and stopped.

"Sir, I need to—"

"Have a seat, Jolsen," Commander Pike said. Natalie watched as he made his way through the area he kept as his office and went into his sleeping quarters. His bunk, she noted through the open door, was still unmade—a messiness she wouldn't have expected from him.

She heard drawers opening and shutting and then a loud clang.

"I'm finished with it," Pike said, walking back out with a blue metal rectangle the size of a sandwich. Two wires dangled from one end— _a portable electrical stimulator, then._ "Here, take it."

He wrapped the wires around the box and held it towards her.

"Are you…sure?" she stammered, and he nodded, holding his own wrist out and turning his hand in the air.

"Had a spell of tendonitis a couple of weeks ago," he said. "This will fix you right up."

"I don't know what to say."

"You could say _thank you_ ," Commander Pike said, sitting down at his desk and waving to one of the nearby chairs. "Sit down and stay awhile. Tell me how you got tendonitis in the first place. Pushing too many papers, I suppose. Or arm wrestling with me over every little thing."

She recognized his chitchat for what it was, an attempt at peacemaking, at camaraderie. Her earlier irritation with him felt peevish; her face grew hot with embarrassment.

"Thank you," she said, "but I need to get back."

As she turned to go, she caught a glimpse of his expression. Sadness? Or disappointment?

Or more likely, nothing at all except her imagination.

She stopped at the door and looked back.

"You said you were looking for me? Earlier? Did you need something?"

As if he were being called from a long distance, the Commander shook his head.

"It's not important," he said. "Nothing I can't take care of by myself."

For a moment she wavered, his invitation for conversation giving her pause.

But when she looked more closely, he was already busy with something else, his PADD in his hand, his attention focused on the screen, the offer withdrawn.

X X X X X X X

The room is typical of the Dutch—small and neat and exceptionally clean. On a triangular-shaped table in one corner is a tea service—two old-fashioned porcelain cups oddly anachronistic beside the sleek electric kettle. An assortment of teas, some spoons and stirrers, and a thermos of chilled milk crowd the rest of the table top.

At any other time Spock might have been content to brew a cup of tea while he waits, but tonight he is too agitated.

Even acknowledging his agitation makes him more agitated—shamed by his inability to do what he normally does so well, compartmentalize his thoughts, setting aside those that are distressing, dismissing those that are irrelevant, saving his energy for things that matter.

He glances at his comm to check for messages, knowing already there are none. Such an illogical action horrifies him. Clearly he is not himself tonight. Looking around the room, he sees that the innkeeper was telling the truth when she said that she had studied on Vulcan for a year in her youth. There in the other corner is a candle in a glass bowl—not quite an _asenoi_ , but close enough. He forces himself to breathe deeply as he lights it.

The small room is on the third floor of a house facing the canal, two blocks from the Interplanetary Court of Justice. Spock had stumbled across it accidentally earlier in the afternoon when he left the preliminary hearings for a meal break. Although Natalie and Captain Pike invited him to eat with them in the court commissary, he had declined. The idea of engaging in polite conversation was too tiring.

A small sign outside the house advertised vegetarian cuisine in general and Vulcan dishes in particular. Intrigued, he sat in one of the three small tables in the front room, ordered a familiar curry-like stew, and was pleasantly surprised. When he paid his bill and complimented the owner, she mentioned that she also kept two guests rooms.

"If I were staying overnight I would consider it," he told her before he returned to the afternoon hearings.

The five members of Earth United who had bombed the Feynman Conference in Leiden were already in the dock when Spock made his way to where Natalie and Captain Pike were sitting. The audience included Starfleet personnel, Federation representatives, legal advisors, and the media. Fearing disruption from the swelling group of protestors, officials had banned the general public from the main courtroom, though a steady video feed was broadcast to a screen outside.

Spock had made note of it on his way back from his meal. The crowd of people milling about it were noisier than the ones he had passed that morning with Natalie. As he made his way past them and headed to the security checkpoint, he waited for the invariable insult—the same words hurled at him before the conference in Leiden—and sure enough, right as he handed the security officer his ID, he heard a rising crescendo of shouting behind him.

"There's one!" someone said, and then another voice shouted, "Go home!"

All morning the hearing was consumed with procedural matters, but after lunch the accused bombers were given the opportunity to make statements.

That, Spock realized later, was when he started to lose his composure.

It wasn't just that the five men looked and sounded rational.

It wasn't even that their demeanor was calm and composed, their attitude towards the judges and court officials respectful, deferential.

And it wasn't only what they said that was so upsetting—their race hatred and prejudice unvarnished, bare, their calls for human supremacy, their insistence that aliens have no place on Earth.

What left him so uneasy was the conviction in their voices—their utter certainty of being right, without doubt, full of emotion they didn't question.

People like this could not be reasoned with.

By midnight only three of the accused had made their statements and the court adjourned.

"We missed the last shuttle," Natalie said, checking the flight schedules on her comm. "The next commercial plane leaves in 20 minutes but doesn't get to San Francisco until 3. Then we'd have to turn right around."

"Okay," Captain Pike agreed. "Let's head to the hotel."

The hotel nearest the court was a large multistoried building overlooking a park—a pleasant enough place, but the promised quietude of the small guest house on the canal was a bigger pull. Spock could see that Captain Pike and Natalie were both surprised when he made his apologies and left them at the lobby of the large hotel.

The same woman who had served him his meal answered the door when he rang.

"The environmental controls in the room are very good," she said, handing him an access card for his room. "Nevertheless, you may want this."

She opened a closet beside the stairwell and took out a folded blanket, setting it carefully in Spock's arms without brushing his hands.

More proof that her year on Vulcan had been instructive.

The first thing he did when he got up to the room was call Nyota.

She picked up almost immediately but was helping a student in the lab and couldn't talk.

"Can I call you after I grab some supper? The cafeteria is going to close in an hour."

_It was illogical to be disappointed. Nevertheless—_

In the meantime he looked over the possibilities for tea and then drifted to the candle beside the bed.

Meditation, then, to compose himself before he speaks to Nyota. As upsetting as the bombers' statements had been, he knows that part of his disquiet this evening is his own pending testimony. Both he and Captain Pike are scheduled to make statements about what happened when the bombers infiltrated the conference, detonating two bombs before making their way to the main conference area.

In less than a minute that day Spock had followed Captain Pike's unspoken direction, circling behind the bombers while Pike distracted them. In swift succession he and Pike had incapacitated them—a nerve pinch and a left hook had done the trick—but then Spock had made a decision that still haunts his infrequent dreams.

Hearing the unmistakable whine of a sonic grenade, Spock had picked it up and run from the room, looking for a safe place to detonate it. As the seconds ticked past he began to despair, sure that his own death was imminent.

What shatters his sleep from time to time is the discovery he makes anew when he dreams about that mad dash—that his sorrow is not because he will die, but because he will lose Nyota.

Now while he waits for her to call him, he stretches out across the bed, the linens as tight as a drum, the coverlet thick and welcome. The light from the flickering candle casts moving shadows across the ceiling, and by the time the comm chimes, he has recovered enough of his equanimity so that his voice sounds even, his breathing is steady.

Nyota is not fooled.

"What happened?" she asks, and he recounts for her the statements the three accused bombers made, details for her the crowd outside the court, describes the room he has taken in the house in Prinsestraat.

As he unspools his day for her, the little noises she makes—the clicks and sighs and sounds of outrage—are like a balm. They are, in fact, the expressions he wishes he could make.

No matter. That she does it for him is sufficient.

"Do you want me to come?" she asks when he finishes his account, and he pauses. Of course he does, but it would foolish to. The odds are high that his part of the hearing will be over by tomorrow afternoon and he will on his way home. He'll see her then—or at the latest, the next day.

He tells her so.

"There's a shuttle at 1730," she says. "I could be there in an hour."

He hesitates before he answers.

Having her here now—even if only for a few hours, would make the evening less lonely, less _bleak_.

For that is how he feels after all that he has heard today.

_Go home._

"I will see you tomorrow," he says. "There is nothing you need to do here."

"If you're sure," she says, and he says, "I am."

And he is.

Hearing her voice, telling her what he saw, has been sufficient.

It is a relief to know that their attachment transcends the need for a physical presence, transcends the distance of time and space. How odd that he hasn't considered that before.

He sits up on the bed and crosses his legs, presses his palms down on his thighs, and focuses on the candle.

It isn't his _asenoi_ , but it is sufficient.

_It is sufficient._

Something about the phrase is wrong in Standard, and he tests the idea in Vulcan.

_Punar-tor._

_It is accepted._

That, too, is imprecise, implying an action rather than a state of mind.

He closes his eyes but the candlelight continues to _dance on his eyelids._

The metaphor quirks his lip in amusement. Nyota's habit of drawing such pictures with words has obviously slipped into his own way of thinking. The idea brings him quiet pleasure.

 _It is sufficient_ that she is here in his mind now, like the raised outline of an engraving.

Another metaphor. _Fascinating._

It is more than sufficient, and suddenly the right word floats to his lips like some silent fish breaking the surface of a pond.

_Dayenu._

Ancient Hebrew, a word meaning not just _it is sufficient_ , but with a coloring of gratitude for what has been given, a reassurance to the giver that nothing else is required.

And the paradoxical understanding that more will be delivered, that the bounty is boundless, that the only way to offer thanks is to protest—mildly—that enough is enough.

_Dayenu._

In the light trance of meditation he steps into the memory he has of the word, spoken during a Pesach meal his Aunt Cecilia and his mother prepared one spring when Spock's family was in Seattle during Passover.

There in front of him is his aunt's house, and stepping through the front door, he is twelve years old again, glad to be with his cousins though somewhat cautious of the noise and bustle that always seem to surround them. From the kitchen he hears his mother and her sister laughing, chopping apples and walnuts for the _charoset_ , giggling like schoolgirls about whether or not to season it with cinnamon.

The memory shifts to later in the afternoon, his mother handing him the silver candlesticks and giving him the task of polishing them. The polish is goopy and smells strongly of chemicals, though Spock is careful to hide his distaste from his mother.

He sees her delight when he presents the candlesticks to her, her face flushed from working in the kitchen, from laughing.

"Hand me that _haggadah_ and I'll show you the part you will read," she says, wiping her hands on her apron and motioning to the small stack of booklets the family will use in the simple pageantry of the meal.

At this Spock balks.

"I would rather not," he says. Immediately his mother's expression darkens.

"What do you mean?" she says, and Spock is momentarily flummoxed. Surely his meaning is clear.

"I do not wish to read," he says, but his mother's expression suggests she is still confused.

"Why ever not, Spock?"

"The story is not factually true."

He hears his mother let out a breath. The only other sound in the house is the occasional thump from upstairs as someone—Rachel, most likely—tumbles across the floor.

"How do you know it isn't true?" his mother says at last, and Spock says, "Archaeological evidence doesn't support one massive exodus of the Jews from Egypt, the way the biblical account suggests."

His mother blinks twice and says, "But—what does that have to do with whether or not you will read part of the service?"

"The story is presented as if it is true. It is not."

"You don't know that for certain!"

"But the odds are high that it is factually flawed."

In the trance of his meditation he feels what he felt as a twelve-year-old, an inordinate satisfaction that he had out-maneuvered his mother. But his trance is not so deep that he doesn't also know what is clear to him as a 27 year-old, that his mother would ultimately prevail.

"Facts," she says, "aren't the only kinds of truth. The story may not have happened at all but it is still true."

He starts to protest but she holds up her forefinger, her signal for silence.

"Even if the story isn't factually accurate, it still is metaphorically true. Look what it teaches us—that we aren't alone, that we can help each other, that freedom is worth the struggle."

She pauses and he can see that she is debating within herself about whether to say more. Knowing his mother, he expects her to continue and she does.

"I thought you of all people," she says, her gaze boring into his own, "would appreciate a story about feeling like an outsider. About being treated as an outcast."

She leaves him then, returning to the kitchen. In a moment the clang of a pot on the stove releases him from his paralysis and he walks outside.

In that real spring 15 years ago he had wondered around in the yard aimlessly until Chris found him and pressed him into service setting the table with linens and silverware. Vulcans were, on the whole, appreciative of ceremony, and Spock was no exception. The orderliness of ceremony—the predictability of the actions, the delineation of roles—was logical. When the table was set, he felt a satisfaction that was almost pleasure.

Now in his meditative trance he peoples the table with his family and seats himself between his mother and his father. The meal doesn't start until the _haggadah_ is read—Chris and Anna taking turns, until the section where the long list of blessings is recounted.

"If we had been brought out of Egypt but no justice had been served against our oppressors," Chris reads, and the family says, " _Dayenu_."

"If justice had been served against our oppressors but their evil idols were left standing," Anna says, and then everyone else chimes in, " _Dayenu_."

 _Dayenu_. One blessing would have been sufficient.

And so on, through all fifteen verses of a song so old that its origins have been lost in antiquity.

To his surprise, Spock hears not only his mother but his father intoning the response. By the last verse, Spock joins in and is rewarded with his mother's smile. His heart beats so hard in relief that he hears it in his ears.

Not his heartbeat, he thinks, slipping up from the lowest level of his meditation. An actual sound, not just in memory but here, in his room on Prinsestraat in The Hague.

He is sitting on the bed facing the door—the source of the sound. Lifting himself further into consciousness, he notes the time—0355—too early for the landlady, and neither Captain Pike nor Commander Jolsen knows he is here. The sound again—a soft rap, the flesh and bone of knuckles—small ones, thin, the sound echoing through cartilage and tendons.

Again the soft rap, 1.54933 meters from the floor, eye level for someone _her_ height.

He pictures her arm bent, her fist loosely closed, her hand drawn back as she stands there in the hall. She will not have worn her uniform, of course, but something comfortable for late travel—dark jeans and a jacket, her thick black one against the night air, her hair down around her shoulders.

With a snap he opens his eyes and steps across the room.

He pulls back the door and there she is, giving the lie to all his careful meditation.

"Surprise," Nyota says.

Hearing her voice over the comm had not been sufficient.

Sharing the troubles of the day without being able to touch her had not been sufficient.

 _Dayenu_ , indeed.

**A/N: The biblical story of the exodus of the Jews from ancient Egypt is recounted each spring during Passover. Even people unfamiliar with the story know many of the iconic moments from it: the plagues the Egyptians suffered until Pharaoh agreed to let the Jews go, the waters of the Red Sea receding so that Moses could lead the people across.**

**Thank you for continuing to read this story, and a special thanks to everyone who takes the time and trouble to review!**


	4. Second Wind

**Disclaimer: Most of these characters are not my creations—but a few of them are. All are equally quarrelsome when I sit down to write about them, though.**

Even inside the large courtroom of the Interplanetary Court of Justice at The Hague, Chris can hear the rain. All morning thunder rattles the windows and large drops of water slam into the glass. Typical weather for June in The Netherlands—and not all that different from the chilly rain back home in San Francisco this time of year. Still, an occasional blast of air when an outside door is opened makes him shiver.

Sitting beside him in the crowded courtroom, Natalie is also bundled against the cold, her shoulders hunched over slightly, her hands in her pockets.

The only person not looking miserable is Spock. _Damn Vulcan constitution_ , Chris thinks. _He probably doesn't even feel the cold._

Seated next to Natalie, Spock keeps his eyes forward on the testimony coming from the dock. The last of the accused bombers finished his statement earlier, and then both Chris and Spock gave their accounts of what happened during the Feynman Conference in Leiden. Now the chief of security at the University of Leiden is explaining how the terrorists managed to elude detection. The three judges officiating at this preliminary hearing do not look amused.

Soon the security chief is dismissed and the court calls a short recess while the final person to testify is being checked in. Chris glances at his chronometer—1427. If they're lucky, they can catch one of the afternoon shuttles and be back home before dinnertime.

"Tired?" Natalie says, and he nods. The launch of the Enterprise is 19 months away, but the schedule is already hectic and unrelenting. One snafu and the whole system will tumble like dominoes. If he didn't have Natalie—

And Spock, too, has been a big help. Would be more if Admiral Barnett would release him from his teaching duties sooner rather than later.

At least Spock's teaching in only one department now. His release from the language classes has given him more hands-on time at the shipyard in Riverside, freeing Chris from having to make the hop to Iowa quite so often.

"How much time," he says, leaning toward Natalie and Spock, "do you need to get your things to the shuttle when we finish up here?"

Natalie, he knows, stayed last night in the same large hotel near the Court of Justice where he stayed, a five minute walk away. Spock, on the other hand, did not take a room there. For all Chris knows, his first officer spent the night walking around The Hague or sitting in a café. How much sleep do Vulcans need, anyway?

"I will not be returning with you," Spock says, and Chris sees Natalie's eyes widen. So she doesn't know what's up either. Not like her to be caught off guard.

"You have other business here?" Chris asks. It's none of his concern, of course, but he decides to ask anyway.

If Spock feels intruded upon, he doesn't show it. In fact, Chris realizes, Spock not only doesn't seem unduly affected by the chilly, rainy weather, he looks…comfortable. And content. More content than he usually does.

There's a story there, surely. He looks at Natalie but she raises her eyebrows.

 _I don't know anything_ , she seems to be saying.

"Not here," Spock says evenly, "but in London. The Federation Worlds Chess Championship is taking place this week. The first round matches start today."

"Don't tell me," Chris says, laughing, "that you're in it."

"No, sir," Spock says. "The Tri-dimensional Chess Champion is barred from competing."

Natalie's snicker adds insult to injury.

"And you?" Chris says. "You're the Tri-dimensional Chess Champion this year?"

"Defending champion," Spock says.

The chime sounds to call the court to order and Chris leans back into his seat.

"You need to start doing your homework," Natalie says, _sotto voce_ , and Chris harrumphs loudly.

The last person to testify is a local law enforcement officer who has been tracking Earth United and other anti-alien organizations for the past three years. Leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, Chris listens intently as the officer details the gradual rise in local hate crimes—small acts of vandalism against alien-owned businesses and homes, electronic attacks against communications servers sending off-world signals, vocal but small groups of protestors at any events likely to have large numbers of non-humans present.

By the time the officer finishes, Chris' fists are clenched, his jaw tight. Darting a glance at Natalie beside him, he notes that her face is flushed.

He doesn't dare look at Spock.

When the head judge announces the end of the preliminary hearing, the audience stands and begins to make their way to the aisles and to the front hall. From the sound of things—or rather, the lack of sound—the rain has stopped, and indeed, when Chris gets to the front door, he sees the dark clouds scudding across the sky, small blue patches beginning to show through.

The water standing on the sidewalk ruffles in the cool wind. Waiting a moment before stepping outside, Chris flips the collar of his jacket up and turns to help Natalie slip hers on. It is a natural motion, practiced hundreds of times, but today it makes him unaccountably sad.

"You okay?" Natalie says, ever alert to his moods.

He isn't okay. The disturbing testimonies, certainly, have soured his day. And this preliminary hearing is just the beginning. The actual trial may drag on for months.

But it's more than that, too, some impending sense of doom or loss that sneaks up on him when he isn't careful—not at all like him to wallow, to dwell, to ruminate on things he can't change. Not like him at all.

"Sure," he says, taking Natalie's elbow and steering her away from the door and down the steps to the sidewalk. Dimly he is aware that Spock is behind them.

At least the bad weather has kept the protestors away.

A random gust of wind hurls a few drops of rain at them and Chris lets go of Natalie's elbow and takes her hand as they dart across the street. In the lee of a large administrative building they pause and watch Spock waiting briefly for a hover car to pass before following them across.

"We're going to head on back," Chris says when Spock is a few yards away. Spock nods briefly and says, "Of course, Captain."

And then he pivots to the left and walks quickly into the wind toward a residential section of town.

For a moment Chris and Natalie stand immobile, Spock's receding back like a magnet for their view.

"Where d'you think he's going?" Chris asks, not expecting an answer, and Natalie says, "To pick up his things, I guess."

"I mean later. You buy that story about London? About the chess championship?"

"Why would he lie?"

"If he's meeting up with someone—"

To his surprise, Chris suddenly realizes that he doesn't want to know anything else. He's managed not to know quite a bit—refusing to read the name of the cadet involved, for instance, in Spock's disciplinary hearing, warning Natalie not to give him details he won't be able to forget later.

He knows too well how hard it is to move forward after that sort of compromise.

As if she senses his uneasiness, Natalie squeezes his hand tightly before letting it go.

"I wouldn't know," she says. "He doesn't exactly confide in me."

"His loss," Chris says, looking ahead down the street toward their hotel.

And his own as well, and suddenly Chris is aware of the source of his sadness as he walks through the wet with Natalie. Their time together is drawing steadily, inexorably to a close, something he thought would never happen—indeed, had promised himself he wouldn't let happen.

He glances at her, her short auburn bob tucked behind her ears, the tips of her ears and her nose red in the cold.

 _It's too late,_ he says, his mantra these days. It's too late to tell her how the thought of her leaving the service—of her leaving him—wakes him at night, makes him reach for a glass of whiskey at 3 AM.

"What?" she says, and he realizes that he's been staring at her—again.

"Nothing," he says, forcing a smile. "Nothing at all."

X X X X X X X

"Lieutenant Jolsen, report to Commander Pike's office."

"What now?" Natalie said, glancing up at the intercom overhead. From the corner of her eye she saw Jenna grinning. So it wasn't her imagination—Commander Pike really was singling her out for attention.

Granted, most of the time he contacted her with legitimate questions and concerns. Because the _Tiberius_ was running heavy with 40 more crew members than the usual allotment, provisioning was a constant struggle. As records officer, making sure each department had the supplies they needed was Natalie's job. As first officer, Commander Pike seemed to think he needed to make sure she was getting all her requisitions in on time.

"I'll be right back," she said over her shoulder to Jenna, the only other person working with her in records.

"Think so?" Jenna called after her.

Well, Jenna could make jokes if she wanted to. Natalie was going to insist that the Commander let her return to work as soon as possible. What was so important anyway that she had to report to him in person?

By the time she arrived at his cabin on deck five, Natalie was no longer trying to hide her annoyance. As soon as she pressed the chime and the door swung open, she walked forward quickly and stood at exaggerated attention.

"Reporting as ordered, sir," she said, looking over his head to a point on the distant wall. For a moment she held her pose and when the Commander said nothing, she darted a glance at him.

He wasn't looking in her direction at all but was absorbed in a PADD on his desk. For another minute Natalie stood at attention, locking her knees when she began to bobble.

"Well," Commander Pike said, as if they were in the middle of a conversation already, "I don't think you will have any trouble."

"Sir?"

"Lieutenant, sit down. You make me nervous standing there like a vulture."

"Sir, if you don't mind, I need to return—"

"In a minute," Pike said, flicking the screen. Finally he looked up where Natalie continued to stand. "Jolsen, I told you to sit. I need to talk to you."

Repressing a sigh, Natalie sat on the edge of the chair facing Pike's desk.

"We're scheduled to arrive at Ariana Outpost at 0400 to drop off a shipment of supplies. Dr. April wants to check on the survey team that's heading up the research there. She says they're overdue for a medical workup, and that will give us time to upload some documents they want couriered to the foundation in charge of the project they are overseeing.

"You'll head up the landing party. Don't look so surprised; you're next in the routine rotation. Escort the doctor down and assist her if she needs you. And get those records taken care of. Shouldn't be that hard, even for a paper pusher like you."

Before she could stop herself, Natalie said, "I appreciate your vote of confidence, sir."

Even to herself she sounded sarcastic.

The Commander swiveled his head toward her swiftly and Natalie waited for a reprimand. Instead, he said, "Maybe a change of scenery will—"

He stopped abruptly. Will what? Sweeten her mood? Soften her up?

"Thank you," Natalie said, trying to sound sincere. She did appreciate the responsibility. Pondering how to tell him but not trusting herself, she said nothing more but nodded briefly as she was dismissed.

Since arriving on the _Tiberius_ two months ago, she hadn't left, not even during the brief shore leave some of the crew opted to take at Starbase Three.

Seeing something besides her cramped office and her supply closet cabin would be a treat. She should have shown her appreciation to the Commander.

Later she would, somehow. She carried that thought with her as she headed to sickbay to help Dr. April gather her equipment.

But later she didn't feeling appreciative after all.

The glitter of the transporter effect had barely dissipated when Natalie realized that the assignment wasn't going to go as planned.

Instead of being greeted by the outpost commander, Natalie saw an elderly Vulcan woman swathed in a long dark robe standing in the center of the room. Stepping off the transporter pad, Natalie watched as the woman began to tumble forward.

Instinctively Natalie darted forward to catch the woman as she fell.

"Remove your hand."

The woman's voice was not that of someone frail. She was, Natalie decided, imperious. Stern. Almost angry.

So much for Vulcans not having emotions.

Uncowed, Natalie asked, "Are you alright?"

"An illogical question. You can see that I am unwell."

Pulling her hand away, Natalie said, "We were told someone would meet us to take delivery of a supply shipment. Are in you in charge of this outpost?"

As Natalie spoke, Dr. April moved closer, unsnapping her medical kit and taking out a handheld scanner.

"I do not need your help," the Vulcan woman said to the doctor, her tone brusque. Her gray hair was severely cropped, her eyes almost black. "No human can help me now."

Hearing the whoosh of a door, Natalie looked up and saw two uniformed men entering the transporter room. The older one, a short man with Asian features, held out his hand to Dr. April.

"Sarah," he said, "I'm glad you are here. Yesterday we lost a member of our staff in an accident, and T'Parr almost died as well."

"I need a real healer," the woman—T'Parr—said. "Not this human medic."

Sensing Dr. April bristling beside her, Natalie stepped forward.

"I'm Lieutenant Jolsen from the _USS Tiberius_. We have your supplies, and Dr. April wants to schedule medical checks for your staff. Can we offer other assistance?"

"I require transport to Vulcan. Immediately."

The Vulcan woman swayed as she spoke but did not fall.

The man who had spoken to Dr. April shrugged.

"I'm Hiang Wu, director of the research project here at Ariana. One of the environmental units suffered a catastrophic failure in the west section of the outpost. Until we get the unit back online, we can't access that area. Maybe one of your engineers could help out?"

"Substandard Starfleet construction," T'Parr said. "This would not have happened on a Vulcan facility."

To her dismay, Natalie felt herself beginning to be irritated. This Vulcan was obviously suffering a trauma. Holding her to account for being blunt or pushy was unfair. Still—

"We must leave now," T'Parr said, and Natalie turned to her.

"I will notify the captain of your situation," she said. "In the meantime, I have supplies to deliver and data to upload, and Dr. April has medical exams to perform. I suggest you—"

But before Natalie could continue, T'Parr dismissed her by swiveling away and exiting the transporter room.

_Well. So much for the fun landing party._

Seven hours later she was finally back on the Tiberius, ready for a shower and some sleep. The last thing she wanted to hear was the intercom again.

"Lieutenant Jolsen, report to Commander Pike's office."

This time she was in the mess hall eating a hurried meal. No use pretending she hadn't heard the call. At least two people sitting near her met her eye and sent sympathetic looks.

No matter. She wasn't hungry anyway. After putting away her tray, she made her way to the turbolift and back to the Commander's cabin on deck five.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

This time Commander Pike didn't offer her a seat.

"I read the debriefing notes you gave to Lieutenant Commander Eggers," he said. "Sounds like you got more than you bargained for."

Suddenly she was very tired—so tired, in fact, that she looked longingly at the chair. Following her gaze, Commander Pike said, "Sit if you want to. This might take a few minutes."

Sinking into the chair she debated where to begin.

"Sir," she said, "everything was fine until we found out we had to bring back a passenger. You didn't tell me that."

"Because I didn't know it," Pike said. "I understood from the debriefing that this T'Ponn—"

"T'Parr," Natalie corrected.

"T'Parr lost her spouse when the environmental unit failed. She's lucky she wasn't killed, too."

"She didn't seem to feel very lucky," Natalie said. "She wasn't very happy with us. With me."

"Gave you a hard time, did she?"

"Sir, do you know any Vulcans?'

"Not well, though I've met a few. What's your point?"

Natalie paused. How to phrase what she was trying to say without sounding like a raving xenophobe…

"It's just that they are hard to get to know," she said at last. "And they can be stubborn."

"Mulish," Pike said, and Natalie knew she was being tweaked. She glanced up at him and continued.

"No matter what Dr. April and I did, T'Parr was critical. I know she's probably in shock, or whatever Vulcans feel when they suffer some trauma, but she went out of her way to be…disagreeable."

"She's ill," Pike prompted, and Natalie said, "But she's also a professional. A scientist. She could see we were trying to accommodate her, but she acted offended when we tried to help. When Dr. April tried to do a medical exam, she said she wasn't allowing a human to examine her."

"Really."

"I mean, I understand that she's grieving."

"Yep," Pike said, leaning back in his chair until it creaked, "you went and had yourself a bad day alright. Having to deal with an irritable, stubborn, critical, unfriendly woman. I feel your pain."

His eyes bored into hers until she had to look away.

"Which is why what I have to tell you next is even harder," he said.

At that Natalie felt a jolt of alarm.

"I'm going to give you a second chance," Pike said. "You didn't exactly acquit yourself leading your first landing party. We have three days until we get to Vulcan. Until then, you are relieved of your normal duties and will be at the beck and call of our guest."

"But—"

"It's at her request," Commander Pike said, smiling. "Apparently the lady took a shine to you. Refused help from anyone else."

"But, sir—"

"She'll need help getting settled into quarters. And later you can give her a tour of the ship, see if you can get her to agree to let Dr. April check her out."

"But—"

"Be friendly, Jolsen. You're a natural at it."

"Sir—"

"You know I'm kidding."

"Oh!"

Natalie leaned forward in relief.

"About your being naturally friendly, I mean," he said. "Consider yourself assigned to be her aide until we get her to Vulcan."

"But, sir," Natalie said, feeing her heart sink, "I have so much work—"

"Lieutenant Vang has been working with you in records, right? She can take up the slack for three days. I'm offering you a second chance, Lieutenant. Keep our Vulcan guest happy for three days and I'll make you look like a hero in the log. Now get out of here. We both have work to do."

X X X X X X X

The trip from Amsterdam to London is so short that Nyota is barely settled into her seat before the shuttle is landing. In retrospect it seems silly not to have flown with Spock after all. The flight is so brief and the passengers so few that the odds are the two of them would not have been recognized or even noticed.

Too late now. As she makes her way off the shuttle when it comes to a stop at the terminal at Gatwick, she shifts her bag from one shoulder to the other and looks for Spock. Another shuttle is disembarking at the same time and a rush of people obscure her view for a few moments. She steps aside and waits until most of the passengers have moved past her. Nothing. He's not in the main arrival terminal.

Of course, his flight got here over an hour ago. Most likely he is in the commercial section of the terminal having a cup of tea or checking messages on his comm. She debates sending a text with Chris Thomasson's borrowed communicator but hesitates. How hard can one Vulcan be to find?

Pretty hard, apparently. All of the cafes and take-away counters are open to a central holding area with plenty of chairs and small tables. If Spock is having tea here, she doesn't see him.

Walking on through to the baggage area, she scans the diverse crowd. Humans are in the majority but a considerable number of off-worlders are there as well, milling about and collecting their luggage. She even spots a small group of Vulcans, though all are much older than Spock and are wearing traditional heavy robes embroidered with family signets.

Just as she's decided to text him after all, she feels the electric tingle of his finger stroke on the back of her arm.

"I have a transport for us," he says, and without a word she hoists her shoulder bag and follows him through the crowd.

The weather outside is even chillier than in The Netherlands, and wet as well, with a fine mist blowing in. She's grateful that they don't have to walk far to the small hover cab, its windows darkened, the _engaged_ signal lit.

Only when they are inside and the directions tapped into the automatic driver do they speak.

"The first round has already begun," Spock says. "Do you object to our proceeding there directly?"

 _Object_ is too strong a word so she shakes her head. What she would _like_ to do is check into a hotel and freshen up—perhaps take a nap—before parking herself for several hours at a chess tournament.

Not that she doesn't enjoy chess now and again—at least playing it. And she's watched tournament matches before, back when one of her high school friends made the local playoffs. But it isn't her first choice of a way to spend a few days in London.

Still—it's better than sitting in her dorm room back at the Academy, finishing up research for a paper for the course she's taking during the first summer session.

The meeting hall where the Federation Worlds Chess Championship is being held is an oddly angled mass of transparent aluminum and black stone. Just inside the main entrance is a ticket counter where Spock queues up behind two Andorians, a Federation race that often wins the championship.

"What do you think chess is?" Professor Artura had commented once when Nyota wondered aloud why Andorians seemed so taken with the game. "It's war strategy, plain and simple. No people enjoy war more than mine."

When Spock gets to the head of the line Nyota is surprised that their tickets and identification badges are ready. They hadn't decided until late last night to come. Spock must have ordered everything while she was asleep.

Her face heats up when she thinks about last night—he had certainly been glad to see her and had expressed his appreciation enthusiastically. And repeatedly. As if he can read her thoughts, he turns and looks at her closely before handing her the ticket and badge. His gaze heats up the rest of her body.

"Go," she says to cover her embarrassment, and he leads the way to the main exhibition hall.

The crowd is subdued but not silent. Several large vidscreens are placed on each wall and observers have chairs pulled close. At one end of the room are the actual players on a raised stage, though only a few people are watching them directly. Seeing the actual chess moves on the vidscreens is much easier.

However, Spock passes the screens and heads to a row of stadium seats positioned near the stage. In his wake, Nyota sees heads turn as they make their way forward—chess aficionados obviously recognizing him.

Slipping into her seat, Nyota takes a moment to adjust her ID badge before looking at the players. To her surprise, they seem oddly mis-matched—the player on the left at least 50, graying, paunchy, his opponent on the right a curly-haired teenaged boy. Those kinds of odd-ball match-ups aren't as rare in chess as in other competitions, but something about the teenager catches Nyota's attention.

He's intense, that's for certain. Twice in the first couple of minutes Nyota hears the judge on the stage caution him to lean back from the board when it isn't his turn to move.

The matches aren't timed and the older player is cautious, careful, studying the board for what feels like eternity and then lifting his selected piece as slowly and deliberately as a sloth. By contrast, the young player is so tightly-wound that when it is his turn to move, he almost stands in place and grabs at the board, his hand darting out like a snake.

Even a somewhat indifferent player like Nyota can tell that the teenager is the more gifted of the two.

The match ends abruptly, sooner than Nyota expects.

"6-2, and the match to Mr. Chekov," the judge intones. Leaping up, the teenager—Chekov—raises his arms in victory and then steps behind the table to shake hands with his opponent.

The matches this first day are set up in an elimination round, meaning that half of the players will advance to the second round and will play each other tomorrow. The third day of the tournament will conclude with four players vying for the championship title.

Watching Chekov bouncing down the steps of the stage, Nyota is almost sorry she won't be in town long enough to see if he advances to the final round. His playing has been quite entertaining.

In two long strides Spock is up from his seat, intercepting Chekov as he reaches the bottom step.

"Mr. Chekov," Spock says as Nyota gets up and sidles next to him, "I am Commander Spock from Starfleet Academy."

Instantly the young man's face falls.

_What's that about?_

"Oh," he says, looking down and shuffling his feet. "Not happy story."

Spock continues without missing a beat.

"I graded the astrophysics portion of your entrance exam," he says, and Chekov lifts his gaze. "While not all of your answers were correct, they were, shall we say, imaginative."

"Reason I fail," Chekov says.

Nyota is taken aback by the boy's fractured Standard. He's obviously bright if he has applied for early admission to the Academy. She knows of a few younger students on campus, all prodigies in some field, all of them fluent in Standard.

This boy, however—she tries to place his accent. Czech? Turkish? _Russian_.

"Negative," Spock says. "You were denied admission because of concerns about your language skills."

This isn't news to Chekov, Nyota can tell. He shrugs and says in Russian, _"It takes too long to learn. I don't have time."_

"I may have a solution," Spock tells him, and Chekov's expression brightens. "But first—"

Spock motions to one of the small tables set up for the judges who are taking a short break while the next match is getting set up. On the table is a duplicate chess board for tracking moves.

"Have a seat," Spock says, and Chekov raises his eyebrows and makes eye contact with Nyota.

"Is now?"

In reply she smiles to reassure him and he slides into the chair opposite the one where Spock seats himself.

They reset the board and play by speed game rules—two minutes total with the winner capturing the most pieces. In 45 seconds Spock checkmates Chekov and they reset the board. The next game lasts a minute, with Spock beating him again.

The third game lasts until the two-minute timer sounds, Spock winning but only by a single piece.

By then the judges return and the two players in the next match ascend the stage steps. Chekov stands and gives an awkward bob of his head to Spock; turning to Nyota, he ducks his head to her as well.

"I may be able to offer you some assistance," Spock says, stopping Chekov from what was clearly his exit.

And before Spock says another word, Nyota knows what he will say. He looks at her—a question in his expression, and she considers.

_Can she get this young teenager up to speed in Standard?_

There are lots of _ifs_ to think about.

 _If_ he is admitted to the Academy, and _if_ he agrees to her tutoring, and _if_ she has time to schedule a lab rotation for him, and _if_ he has any facility with languages at all, which not everyone does….

"It's worth a try," she says to Spock.

Over tea in a small pub down the block she listens as Spock explains to Chekov what he has to do to reapply to the Academy. His physics scores were impressive but not top marks—before the retakes the entrance exam he should master what is known about singularities. His advanced calculus marks were also very good but not perfect. More practice would help.

"If you sit the exam next week, you will be in time to enroll for the second summer session," Spock says. Even in the dim pub light Nyota can tell that the young man is almost overwhelmed.

" _Isn't that what you want?"_ she says in his native tongue and she sees his shoulders relax. He nods and answers, _"I thought I missed my chance."_

"If navigation is still your area of interest," Spock adds, "you can take stellar cartography and advanced physics this summer. That will give you the prerequisites for transporter theory in the fall."

Again Chekov nods, and Nyota says, "But most important, you need to buckle down this summer and get your Standard up to speed. Our lab program is very good if you put in the time."

Later she will ask Spock as they stretch out beside one another in the bed in a boutique hotel in Chelsea why he offered Chekov this second chance—Spock on his back, his eyes uncharacteristically closed even though he is awake, she tracing idle patterns with her fingertips on his chest, trailing up his neck and circling his ears, both of them flushed from the heat of the room and the internal fire they struggle to postpone extinguishing.

"He already failed the entrance exam once. Why let him take it again?"

Instead of answering, Spock will circle her waist with his arm and tug her close.

"No, really," she will insist, batting at his arm playfully but with some annoyance, too.

Spock's eyes will open and he will look at her for a moment before speaking, his deliberation an indication of how seriously he takes her words.

"Because there are always possibilities," he will say. "He shows great promise. Giving him a second chance is only logical."

She will settle back into his arms then and give herself over to the heat and motion to come.

But even then, in some distant part of her mind, she will know that this isn't the only reason—that somehow the young Russian is a symbol for Spock, some representation of someone blown off course, or nearly so, an echo of Spock's disciplinary hearing and the disaster it could have been but wasn't.

Moments of grace, when all seems lost, until it isn't anymore.


	5. Dead Reckoning

**Disclaimer: Just visiting.**

"What's he doing here?"

Chris Pike points with his chin to the tall Vulcan at the front of the small auditorium adjusting the lamp on the presentation projector. The projector sits on a table and faces a large interactive screen on the wall. Near the Vulcan are two humans rearranging a lectern and setting up a portable tablet computer.

When Natalie doesn't answer right away, Chris turns to where she sits hunched over in her seat. Further down the same row of seats he can see his chief engineer, Greg Olson, PADD in hand, talking to a technician. Near the front of the room are two members of the brass—one an admiral charged with overseeing any cost overruns on the _Enterprise's_ construction, the other the liaison for businesses doing construction work for Starfleet.

Other than that, the room is almost empty.

"Well?" Chris says, and Natalie sits up and sighs.

"He designed the coil emission recycler," she says, a note of weariness in her voice. "Nobody understands the specs like he does."

"This is no good," Chris says, starting to rise, but Natalie's hand on his arm stops him.

"Chris," she says, "he wants to be here. He… _needs_ …to be here."

"But—" Chris says, and he sees Natalie pleading with him to sit so he does. "It doesn't seem right."

"Not to you, maybe," she says, "but you aren't a Vulcan. He can't do anything to change what happened. Going on with the presentation—holding up his end of the deal for the company—is logical. Let him take some comfort in that."

"You're right," Chris says, knowing Natalie will misunderstand him. He meets her eye as he adds, "It doesn't seem right to me."

The lights in the room dim and the interactive board lights up. The Vulcan and the two humans at the front of the room take turns describing the coil emission recycler they've designed for starships, outlining the potential savings in energy. Coil emissions are currently a waste product trailed after every ship. Recycled emissions could be used to power the environmental controls, for instance.

More important, coil emissions are a security risk. Even the cleanest running ship is easy to track by the emissions alone. Recycling the emissions before they can escape will make ships harder for a hostile force to find.

The company that developed the recycling technology is a local one that has built other aerospace parts and has a good relationship with Starfleet. Until yesterday they were a faceless group of people to Chris. He's been to their plant in San Jose and toured the prototype testing site, but he's left most of the discussions to Natalie and Olson.

Except now he's seen the Vulcan's face on the newsvids several times. Two days ago a small tremor before dawn broke a gas pipe and started an apartment fire that killed three people, one of them the pregnant wife of Solan, the Vulcan engineer. Vulcans living in the Bay Area are still such a rarity that the media has flashed the photographs of the couple several times each news cycle.

Trying not to let his attention wander, Chris listens as Solan taps the interactive board and the diagram of the recycler peels away, exposing the mechanics inside. His recitation is dry and efficient. No one listening to him would suspect that his mind is anywhere except on the presentation at hand.

Chris shakes his head.

From the corner of his eye he sees Natalie react. Without turning her head, she slides her hand into his and gives him a brief squeeze before pulling away.

She reads him too well, Chris thinks. He has to work on that.

Soon enough the lights come back up and the brass sitting up front pepper the presenters with questions. Chris, however, knows they will almost certainly buy the recycler. Not out of some commitment to energy savings, though Olson was almost ecstatic when he first saw the proposal. The selling point, Chris knows, is the increased security. Short of some sort of cloaking device, the best way for a ship to run truly silent is to stop the coil emissions.

As the presenters at the front of the room pack up their equipment, Chris makes his way down the aisle, pausing briefly to see if Natalie is following him. She is.

Solan looks up as Chris steps to the table. Up close, Chris can see that the Vulcan is not as untouched as he looks from a distance. On one cheek is a small bandage. His left wrist is wrapped in gauze. Taller than Spock and thinner, Solan watches Chris with eyes so black that he seems to have no expression at all.

"I'm…sorry," Chris says. He waits a beat but Solan stands immobile and says nothing. "I lost my parents in a fire. A long time ago, but it's still…hard."

For a moment the Vulcan continues to stare, unblinking, at Chris.

 _That didn't go well,_ Chris thinks.

He starts to turn and then he sees it—a tiny flicker, as faint as an afterimage, in Solan's face. Then Solan nods, briefly, curtly, and Natalie says from Chris' side, "We grieve with thee."

The nod again, this time larger.

"Solan?"

One of his human co-workers calls—a warning, really, aimed at Chris. _Back off_. Chris doesn't mind. He's glad someone's watching out for him.

"Coming," Solan says, and without another word, he scoops up the pile of materials on the table and walks away.

"Why didn't you stop me?" Chris says to Natalie as they head back up the aisle to the exit.

"Exactly how would I have done that, I wonder."

"Like you always do. Reason, logic, and tackling me to the ground."

At that, Natalie laughs as he knew she would.

"My tackling days are over," she says as they walk out of the front of the building, one of the large boxlike offices of headquarters. "You better watch out. That's Spock's job now."

"Remind me again why you've given that up," Chris says. His tone is light but his words are heavy, and Natalie bristles immediately.

"Let's not go over that again."

More often than not when they are together these days, he manages to spoil the time they have with an incautious statement or a complaint disguised as a joke. He's even caught himself _whining_ —something he never does. If he isn't careful, the rest of the afternoon will be fraught with uncomfortable tension.

"Listen," he says, stopping suddenly and turning to face her. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. I'm trying, but it's not easy. I need you—"

He puts up his hands to head off the protest already on her lips.

"I know," he says, "you have your own life, and I'm not trying to complicate it. But I can't pretend I'm not upset. I just can't. It would be easier for everyone if I could, but that's not me. And you know that."

"Chris—" she says, taking a step back, and for a wild moment he is afraid that she will leave now, will ask to have her duty switched until her official departure date.

"Don't say anything," he says. "It's just that this…fire…well, it shook me up. That's all."

It's not quite the truth, and he's pretty sure she knows it, too. But it isn't exactly a lie, either. Twice last night he woke up, heart pounding, confused by the dream he hasn't had in years, of seeing his family's farmhouse in flames, hearing his mother's shouts, pulling on the door to get to her but jerking back his burned hand, choking, instead.

Things that never happened. His family's home had burned one morning while Chris and his younger brother were at school. By the time he was allowed to see it, the fire had long been out, his parents' bodies in the morgue for hours.

Still, from time to time he dreams that he is there when the fire breaks out and his parents are in danger. In every dream, he fails to save them.

The only person he's ever told this to is Natalie, and then only once when they served together on the _Tiberius_. For several years he hasn't mentioned his parents at all, not even in the infrequent calls to his brother.

And now. He's thought of little else in the past two days.

"Okay," she says, her nod a tacit agreement to the lie.

The afternoon stretches ahead with lots of work and he knows he should say nothing more, but some restless energy propels him forward and he hears himself add, "It's just, I know what he's going through. He doesn't need to put on that crazy Vulcan act that nothing matters. He's got to be feeling something."

"Of course he is," Natalie says, surprising Chris with the anger in her tone. "Vulcans have feelings—"

"Whoa! I'm agreeing with you. I'm saying he doesn't have to act—"

"How do you know he's acting? If he doesn't look upset enough for you, that doesn't mean—"

"Stop!" Chris says, but Natalie ignores him.

"If he isn't crying or looking distressed, maybe it's because he's decided that crying and looking distressed aren't going to change anything. Maybe he's decided that the best way to deal with his loss is to set it aside and carry on for now. You know. Get this contract for his company. Get to work building the recycler."

"I'm not disagreeing with you. My point was that if he wants to show his feelings, he should—"

"Why should he? Because you think he should? He's a Vulcan, Chris. Do you know how shaming that would be for him? To show his private feelings to strangers? That might be a human reaction, but he's not human. You know better than that. You've been trained better than that."

He sighs then and starts back up the walkway. The afternoon is absolutely ruined now. If only he could learn to shut up, to muffle what he knows, _knows,_ even as it comes out of his mouth, will be a mistake.

 _You always did like to leap before you look,_ Natalie likes to say.

"Yes, ma'am," he says meekly, hoping to make her laugh again. He darts a glance in her direction and isn't surprised to see her staring ahead, her face stone.

She's right, of course, as she usually is. He's making the kind of error he despises in others, throwing reason and logic out the window in favor of personal bias.

What would a Vulcan say to that?

"Thank you," he says, and this time he sees that he's caught her by surprise. "For reminding me. For keeping me…straight. Like you always have."

He lets that hover in the air with all its implied history before he says, "For using reason and logic and tackling me when I needed it."

X X X X X X X

Natalie had to press the chime twice before T'Parr opened the door. The cabin where she had been quartered was close to Natalie's, around the corridor, a decision Captain April made after Commander Pike told him about Natalie's temporary assignment as T'Parr's liaison, or keeper, or whatever he called her.

Natalie tried to wipe the annoyance from her features as the door slid open.

"Lady T'Parr," she said, hoping that her crash course in Vulcan niceties wasn't completely faulty. Although Vulcan was a founding member of the Federation, few beyond the diplomatic corps had significant contact with humans.

What Natalie knew about Vulcans was almost nil—just what everyone knew, of course. They were telepaths who could read minds if they touched you. They were pacifists whose physical strength made them a threat if they were ever angered. Fortunately that was impossible, since Vulcans had no emotions.

Except that when T'Parr stood at the door inside her cabin, she looked less than pleased about Natalie's being there. Was it possible that she was feeling irritation?

On the outpost she had seemed out of sorts as well. Grief over losing her husband? Or shock from almost dying when the environmental unit failed?

Repressing a sigh, Natalie said, "I'm here to see that you are comfortable. Dr. April has also requested that you come to sickbay—"

She saw the elderly Vulcan start to speak and she hurried on.

"At you convenience. To reassure us that you are not in any medical difficulty."

"I am not in need of a human medic," T'Parr said, starting to turn back to the interior of the cabin. Not allowing herself to be dismissed that easily, Natalie called out, "So you said. Do you require another type of medic?"

At that T'Parr hesitated.

"I require the services of a Vulcan healer," she said, "though it is not essential right away."

A crew member passing down the corridor craned his neck and Natalie said, "Lady T'Parr, do you mind if I come in?"

"T'Parr," the Vulcan said. "Lady is a title reserved for married women."

Taking her comment as permission, Natalie entered the cabin and the door shut behind her.

The cabin was sparsely furnished—just a bunk and a table where T'Parr had stowed a single bag of belongings. Natalie stood at attention, her hands behind her back, while T'Parr sat down slowly on the edge of the bunk.

"Why do you require a Vulcan healer?"

"Personal questions are considered impolite in Vulcan society," T'Parr said, and Natalie nodded.

"I apologize, but I understood that Vulcans prize logic."

"We do."

"Then forgive me again, but my captain has given me the task of looking after your needs while you are on the _Tiberius_. Logically, I can't perform my duty unless I know the answers to certain questions. Such as why you require a Vulcan healer."

In T'Parr's expression Natalie saw a flicker of something akin to amusement or curiosity.

"If you explain," Natalie said, "then I will know why you have refused the aid of our doctor."

"Yes," T'Parr said at last, "it would be logical to give you the information. Very well. A human healer cannot help me transfer Sivek's _katra._ Only a Vulcan healer—and not even all of them—are skilled that way."

"I'm sorry," Natalie said, "but I don't understand."

T'Parr folded her hands on her lap and straightened her shoulders.

"When the environmental unit on the outpost failed," she said, "Sivek was close to the air exhaust valve. The atmosphere on Ariana is toxic to most living things—and when the fans failed, the atmosphere reversed for a few minutes and his lungs were damaged beyond repair. Before he died, he transferred his _katra_ to me, and now I must take it to Vulcan."

During T'Parr's recitation Natalie's hand had drifted up, her fingers covering her lips like someone smothering a gasp. She lowered her hand and said, "I still don't understand—"

"His _katra_. All that is not of the body. His thoughts and memories. His essence."

"A soul?" Natalie asked, and T'Parr said, "This word I have never understood. A _katra_ is the energy signature we leave in the universe. Another mind can carry it but not for long. That is why I need a healer, why I need to get to Vulcan. Sivek's _katra_ needs a place to rest, and my mind needs a place to heal."

"I see," Natalie said, not sure that she did. "In the meantime, can I get you something to eat or drink? Or help you set up a subpace console here?"

"Vulcans do not eat as often as humans do," T'Parr said, "or at least that was my observation during my work on the outpost. Nor do I require any subspace console. I am in communication with my sons through our family bond, and any other contacts can wait."

"You have sons? They know about the accident?"

"Yes, of course," T'Parr says. "They were there."

"They're on the outpost?"

"They are on Vulcan. When their father died, they knew. They were…there…in our minds. Vulcan family members are connected to each other this way."

"In your minds?"

"As you are," T'Parr said, "to your families."

At this Natalie let her hands fall to her sides and she took a breath.

"No, I don't think it's the same," she said slowly, frowning. "We love each other, and we think about each other, but we aren't in each other's minds—at least, not the way you are describing."

"Indeed," T'Parr said, raising one eyebrow. "How peculiar. Later, perhaps, after I have rested, you will explain to me how human families communicate, and how you express your bond.

"But now," she said, stretching out onto her bunk, "I need to meditate. Please turn out the lights on your way out."

Palming the light pad as she left, Natalie headed toward the turbolift. Seeing several people already queued up, she reversed direction and headed to the access tube, climbing the ladder to the deck above where Commander Pike had his office.

"Commander, do you believe in a soul?" she said when his door swooshed open. As she expected, Commander Pike was sitting at his desk, his face scrunched in concentration over his computer.

"What?" he said, looking up.

"A soul? Do you believe in it?"

"What have you been doing? You're out of breath."

"I was just with the Vulcan scientist from the outpost," Natalie said, stepping to the chair in front of the desk.

"Sit," Commander Pike said, and she did, gratefully.

"And she told me she has her husband's soul. I think. It wasn't really clear."

"Jolsen, what are you talking about?"

"The Vulcan, T'Parr. She said that she needs a Vulcan healer."

"We'll be at Vulcan in three days."

"Yes, sir, but she said she needs a Vulcan healer because she is carrying her husband's _katra_ \--"

"His soul?"

"I'm not sure. The words didn't seem to translate. I'm not even sure what I mean when _I_ say _soul_. That's why I asked you—"

"Is this off the record?"

"I'm not the records officer for the next three days, remember?" she says wryly. "You gave me this other job."

"I gave you the job of looking after our guest. And getting her to sickbay to get checked out. Have you done that?"

"Working on it. That's how this whole discussion came up."

She could see his gaze flick to his computer screen and she knew she was losing his attention.

"Please, sir," she said, leaning toward the desk, "I'm trying to do my job, but everything we say keeps getting lost in translation. I mean, T'Parr talks as if this _katra_ is a tangible _thing…"_

"And you're asking me if I think a soul is a tangible thing? Hell, I don't know. I don't think so. I've never seen any evidence to suggest it is."

"But—"

"Lieutenant, have you ever lost anyone close to you?"

His question threw Natalie for an instant and she hesitated.

"If you have to stop and think about it," Pike said, "then you haven't. When my parents died, I didn't have any sense that they left behind some soul. They were just there one day, and then they weren't."

"The fire," Natalie said. Pike looked up sharply. "Dr. April told me," Natalie said.

"Yeah," he said. "The fire. So, anyway, that's just what I think. But I don't know. You're asking the wrong person."

Natalie watched as his expression softened.

"Ask Lieutenant Alvarez," he said, not unkindly. "She knows more languages than anyone else on the ship. She'll know what this—what did you call it?"

" _Katra_."

" _Katra._ She'll know what it is."

Natalie started to rise but Pike held up one hand to stop her.

"You on or off duty?"

"Off," she said, curious about why he needed to know. "T'Parr is resting right now."

"Then here," Pike said, opening his bottom desk drawer and pulling out a silver flask. "We need a drink."

"Sir, I—"

"Come on, Jolsen. Stop being such a stick in the mud."

Years later when she tried to remember what they had drunk she couldn't recall—bourbon or Scotch, Chris liked both. What she did recall was how it felt going down—hot and smoky, like sitting too close to the edge of a fire, which, in retrospect, they probably were.

X X X X X X X

By the time Nyota gets to the poker game, Leonard McCoy is halfway to being very drunk.

When he's drunk McCoy sounds like what he is, a graduate of Emory University born and raised near Atlanta, eating grits for breakfast and picking peaches in the summer, a connoisseur of Kentucky bourbon and no slouch when it comes to other hard spirits. A half empty bottle of Jim Beam and an empty shot glass sit on the felt table beside a dwindling pile of credit chips.

The poker game is a weekly event held in the medical dorm parlor—a misnomer for a room so dark and cramped and smoky that more than one game has been interrupted when the automatic sprinklers went off. During her first two years at the Academy, Nyota stopped in a couple of times a month, often to play but sometimes finding watching from the outer circle more amusing.

Once she became Spock's teaching assistant her free time went into working in the lab—and then later into her relationship with him. In the past year and a half she can count on one hand the number of times she's dropped in to check on her poker buddies.

Tonight is one of those nights. For three weeks Spock has been shuttling back and forth to Riverside preparing the _Enterprise_ to be towed to Spacedock. Lifting the ship through Earth's atmosphere exerts an incredible stress on the structural integrity, and every system has to be double and triple checked before the attempt.

Until the ship is safely tethered in a berth in space, Spock will continue to be so busy that they have to content themselves with infrequent comm calls. She knows this, accepts this, but that doesn't make the weeks less lonely.

The poker game, then, is a welcome diversion.

"There she is!" McCoy shouts when she steps into the hazy interior of the parlor. For a moment she considers turning around and leaving. The smoke is particularly acrid tonight, and the level of noise in the room suggests that McCoy isn't the only one drinking heavily.

"Where ya been, darlin'?"

"Busy," she says, sliding into an empty chair beside the doctor. "Where have you been?"

"Workin' my ass off," he says frowning into his empty shot glass. "Trying to help the helpless, or some such thing."

He leans forward and grasps the bottle of Jim Beam, tipping it to his shot glass and sloshing it over the sides.

"Here," Nyota says, taking the bottle from him. "Maybe you should slow down."

"Naw," McCoy says. "You jes' need to speed up. Lemme find you a glass."

"I'm okay," she says, not because she wouldn't like a shot of Kentucky straight bourbon right now, but because she isn't sure McCoy can navigate across the room to the counter set up as a bar.

"You gonna play?"

"I might," she says, looking around the table. The crowd is thin tonight and obviously between hands. Two medical students she recognizes from before are here, and a security officer she sees around campus from time to time. In the corner are two women sitting in adjacent chairs, deep in conversation. The rest of the room is empty.

"Well, good," McCoy says, taking a drink. "We need somethin' to liven this place up. It's like a funeral in here."

"That's your fault," one of the women in the corner calls out. "No one wanted to hear all that."

"Yeah, well," McCoy says, waving his glass in the air. "Forgive me for telling you my troubles."

"What troubles?" Nyota says, reaching out her hand and lowering McCoy's arm.

"Don't get him started," the woman says, and Nyota glares in her direction.

"What are you talking about?" she asks McCoy and he shrugs.

"You heard about it," he says. "The fire. Yesterday. An elderly couple. And that pregnant Vulcan. "

He takes another swig and Nyota catches her breath.

"How—" she begins, but McCoy goes on.

"They airlifted the Vulcan woman here. Her husband, too. You know, since we have the best facilities for off-worlders."

That last sentence is said with such sarcasm that Nyota flinches. Even drunk, McCoy notices.

"Yeah, you look surprised. We're real good with alien physiology at Starfleet Medical. Real good. So good, in fact, that I only had to take one look to know that Vulcan woman wasn't going to make it. One look! And I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. Not. One. Damn. Thing."

"It's not your fault," Nyota says. She sees at once that this is a mistake, that McCoy interprets her sympathy as pandering. He grimaces at her and pours another drink.

"I know that," he says. "I did what I could. Which was nothin', by the way. Did mention that already? And you know what? It didn't matter. Because that green-blooded son of a bitch with her didn't even blink when we told him she was gone. Cool as a cucumber. Jes' told me he didn't expect much from human doctors anyway."

"He was in shock," Nyota says, but McCoy shakes his head viciously.

"No!'' he says. "He was talking on his comm the whole time I was checking him for burns. Said he had a work project to get back to. Said we could dispose of his wife's body however we wanted, that he didn't have the funds to transport her back to Vulcan."

"People say all kinds of things when they suffer a tragedy."

"It's not what he said," McCoy says darkly, "but how he said it. Cold. Without any feelings at all. I always heard they had none, but until yesterday I wasn't sure."

"You aren't making any sense," Nyota says, pulling the bottle toward her before McCoy can pick it up again. "Of course Vulcans have feelings. They don't show them because it's culturally frowned on, but they do feel—"

"No, they don't," McCoy says with a finality that shakes her. "If you had seen this guy, heard him, you'd know."

His distress and the closeness of the room make her dizzy. She has to get out of here, has to get some air.

Of course he's wrong, she knows that.

But McCoy's certainty touches something that she keeps buried deep inside, some uneasiness of her own, a question that she has to beat back when Spock's responses don't match her expectations—a word too detached, for instance, or a hesitation in his actions bordering on indifference.

The fact that they never speak of their feelings for each other—not openly, not with words. The one time she let slip _I love you_ , she regretted it immediately. They had been sitting on his sofa back when his apartment was still a sanctuary, back before the disciplinary hearing, and she held a handmade teacup in her hands, reveling in the fact that he had bought it for her, enjoying the warmth of his arm next to hers, content as a dreary rain fell outside, and she said the three words that no amount of repetition ever makes dull.

His expression had not changed; he had not stirred. The silence stretched between them until she had looked down, abashed.

She has not said it since.

"Vulcan has no word for love," Spock had said back in her first class with him. "At least not the human meaning of the word."

She had argued with him then that _ashau_ was, indeed, a reasonable synonym.

"The Vulcan dictionary defines it as tenderness toward someone," she said, and he had looked at her with what she thought then was a blank stare.

 _Vulcan arrogance_ , one of her classmates called it later during a study session. She didn't disagree.

Since then she has come to recognize that unblinking look as _deliberation,_ thoughtful consideration before speaking, the opposite of arrogance. At the time, however, she thought he was dismissive of her, irritated, perhaps, that she was taking up so much class time.

"When Vulcans use the term _ashau_ , they mean something different than when humans use the term _love_ ," he said, his hands behind his back in his professor's stance. Nyota had twitched in annoyance at his self-assurance. _The dictionary had clearly said—_

"If you recall from your studies in linguistic relativism and linguistic determinism, speakers are shaped by the languages they use. For example, the Binars of Epsilon Triaga have no abstractions in their language or in their thinking. The only questions that can be asked must be answered yes or no. Although they have been able to develop mathematical concepts, other areas are unknown—and unknowable—to them. Art, for example, and narrative fiction do not exist on Epsilon Triaga.

"Even among human societies this phenomenon is demonstrated. The Piraha people of Brazil have no subjunctive mood in their language. Their references are almost all about what can be seen here and now in the present. As a result, few remember much personal history, not even the names of their grandparents. They do not plan ahead and have remained hunter-gatherers for centuries. In short, their language has shaped how they think."

"Commander," Nyota said loudly, drawing disapproving stares from several nearby students, "are you saying that Vulcans cannot love? Because that's what it sounds like you are saying. That when a Vulcan uses _ashau_ , he doesn't mean love the way we understand it."

"I believe I said that already, Cadet."

It was an obvious dismissal.

Later, when all of the students had filed out of class and Spock gathered up his notes and PADDs and went back to his office, she followed him, slowly, collecting her wits. Something about what he said didn't ring true, felt too quick or simplistic, even illogical.

"Then what _do_ they mean?" she said, leaning on the door frame. To her surprise she saw him jump in his chair—an infinitesimal jerk that gave the lie to perfect Vulcan attention. She felt a flush of pleasure that she had startled him; she was still that annoyed.

"Specify," he said, though she didn't doubt that he knew what she meant.

"Vulcans. What do they mean when they say _ashau_?"

"Cadet Uhura," he said, looking directly at her, "I cannot give you a better definition than the one you already quoted from the dictionary."

He paused briefly and looked away for a moment.

"Nor can you," he said, meeting her gaze again, "understand the subjective experience from a Vulcan point of view. As a human, your experience will always be limited in that area."

His delivery was academic, matter-of-fact, and yet Nyota felt stung.

"If that's true," she said, standing up straighter, "then why are you teaching a xenolinguistics class? If different people can't really communicate—if they can't really understand each other's point of view because their languages have made them see the world in different ways—then everything I hope to do in Starfleet is nothing more than a dream."

To her horror, she heard her voice tremble as she finished.

"On the contrary," Spock said. "A good communications officer is critical on a starship. It will be your task one day to find the closest equivalent meanings between the expressions of various species and races and to bridge, as much as possible, the inevitable differences in their interpretations and perceptions."

He looked down at his computer monitor then, the conversation over.

"Thank you, sir," she said after a moment, no longer annoyed but weary. As she pivoted around to leave she caught a brief glimpse of him looking back up at her, his expression unreadable, and she had the distinct impression that if she were to turn around, she would see his eyes following her as she made her way down the corridor to the stairwell.

Now she looks across the felt table to McCoy and says, "I've got to go."

"Thought you wanted to play cards," he complains.

"I just came to see how you were doing," she lies, and he nods.

"Well, now you see."

She does indeed. Scooting the chair back, she hurries out of the smoky parlor and makes her way across campus to her own dorm. The glass brick transom over the door is lit—Gaila must be inside. Carefully Nyota opens the door, unsure if Gaila is "entertaining" tonight or not.

 _Not_ , apparently. Her roommate is sprawled across her bed on her stomach, one leg bent up, a purple slipper hanging from her toes.

"Hey," she says, barely looking up from her PADD. "I thought you were going to the game."

"Me, too," Nyota says, slipping off her jacket and sitting on her own bed, her back against the headboard. "Can I ask you a question?"

"That was a question," Gaila says, not looking up.

"Do Orions have a word for love?"

That does get Gaila's attention. Twisting on her side, she turns so she can see Nyota clearly.

"Are you serious?"

"I mean, I know you have a word for love, but when you say _love_ in Standard, are you thinking about the same thing you mean when you say _love_ in Orion?"

"What exactly are you asking, Ny?"

What _is_ she asking? For Gaila to contradict the idea that language determines how people think? For her to disprove the notion that language is a cage?

"Nothing," she says, and Gaila shrugs and returns to reading her PADD.

Although she knows that Spock is scheduled to return from Iowa later tonight, she hears nothing from him before she goes to bed. The next morning she checks her comm as soon as she wakes, but no messages are recorded. He must have been afraid he would wake her, she decides.

As she is leaving for the lab, she sees Gaila pick up her comm from the side of her bed and hears her muttering a particularly colorful curse word in her native language.

Even without knowing the actual words, their meaning is clear to Nyota. So much for _lost in translation._

Smiling, she steps toward Gaila and says, "Bad news?"

"Commander Spock," she says, grimacing. "I never should have accepted that programming job. He's driving me crazy."

"You got a message from...Commander Spock?"

"I need to meet with him after lunch to go over the alterations," she says, huffing. "Do you mind if we just grab something to eat on campus? I don't think we'll have time for Moe's."

Moe's is the pub where she and Gaila eat lunch every Monday. The food isn't especially good and the atmosphere is ordinary, but it has a familiar run-down air that is comfortable.

Giving up a meal there isn't that troubling. What is troubling is the fact that Spock hasn't bothered to let her know he is back.

Because he is so focused on work that he doesn't think about it? About her?

She hears McCoy's drunken words: _They don't have feelings._

Not true, she knows. But still. It would be nice to be told. To hear those feelings put into words from time to time.

The day is already hot and when she gets to the language building, she has a sheen of sweat on her brow. Taking two steps at a time, she is on the third floor in another minute. When she reaches the top of the stairs she hears Professor Artura already in the breakroom and she steps inside.

There he is, standing at the sink with the kettle, his blue antennae bent back to catch her footfalls.

"We're out of the Kenyan tea," she says. He swivels around and holds up something in his hand.

"This?" he says, showing her a distinctive foil tea bag and she frowns. Yesterday she used the last of the Kenyan tea Spock had bought her a month ago. Obviously she overlooked one in the tea caddy.

Stepping across the room, she sees that the tea caddy is full of her favorite tea.

"Oh!" she says, astonished. "I thought I used it up!"

Quickly she makes herself a cup and heads to the lab. Monday mornings are typically slow—students are either getting back to campus from a weekend away or are sleeping in after a weekend of play. She's glad for the downtime; a glitch in the software has been a real aggravation lately, closing down the program at random times and requiring extra logins. If she can take time to go through the lines of code, she's sure she can track down the corrupted file that's causing trouble.

Flipping on the computer, she goes to the screen that has been the glitchiest. Nothing. She sits and sips her tea, waiting for the screen to go dark, but the program continues to run. Changing to the login screen, she toggles through several subroutines and watches. Nothing.

And then she knows.

He's been here, bringing her tea, fixing the computer glitch.

In the middle of the night.

He doesn't say _I love you,_ but he does.

If Gaila notices that her mood is considerably brighter at lunch, she says nothing. They eat a quick meal and head back to the point of the commons where they will have to part, Nyota for the language building, Gaila to the computer science building where she's reprogramming the Kobayashi Maru test with Spock.

Even from a distance Nyota recognizes him, his lanky form dark in his professor's uniform, his hair uncharacteristically ruffled by the wind. As they draw closer her heart starts to hammer and she has a moment of panic that he will hear it.

"Cadet Farlijah-Endef," Spock says, nodding to Gaila. "Cadet Uhura."

In his arms are several PADDs and flimplasts. Reaching out to Gaila, he says, "I've noted areas of concern in the new program and written some alternative scenarios I want you to include. I have a meeting with the dean at 1330 but should return to the office by 1500 if you have any questions."

Gaila shifts awkwardly to take the stack from Spock's hands. At her side, Nyota hears Gaila let out a breath as the PADDs slip from her grip and tumble to the ground. The lighter flimplasts skitter several yards in the breeze.

Instantly Nyota leans over, picking up the PADDs. Spock collects the flimplasts and hands them to her as she stands back up. For a moment their eyes meet and then she laughs and says to Gaila, "Butterfingers. Be careful!"

The whole incident takes less than a minute. Then all three head off in different directions.

For the rest of the afternoon she catches herself smiling when she's alone, when she has quiet moments to call up the instant when Spock pressed his fingers into her palm, when the electricity leaped between them with a force that almost made her gasp—and not just electricity, but a message as vivid as any they have shared during longer mind touches.

There they were, chaperoned and innocent, their hands barely brushing, their minds seeking each other.

 _I've missed you!_ she called, and his reply was wordless but all the more intense for that.

She felt what he felt, his longing for her like a thirst, his fierce protectiveness, his gratitude, his absolute desolation when he imagines her loss. How his inability to forget anything she says, she does, leaves him unable to feel nostalgia, for nostalgia is what humans feel as memories fade and are imperfectly resurrected.

Instead, he carries his memories like an indelible road map of where he has been, where he can return. They steady him. They are as close as his own heartbeat.

He told her that day after she challenged him about the Vulcan word for love that she could never understand the subjective experience from a Vulcan point of view, that her humanity would limit her experience.

About her humanity he wasn't wrong, but he's given her Vulcan eyes to see why he cannot, why he _has_ not, returned her _I love you._

Not because the words say more than he feels, but because they cannot say enough.

**A/N: "Dead reckoning" is a navigation term meaning to figure out your position based on where you have been and where you hope to end up. It is, in effect, navigating without equipment, stepping out in faith, so to speak, an apt metaphor for our two couples in this chapter.**

**Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this story—particularly since it features an OC as a major player. As always, your reviews are much appreciated and keep me writing.**


	6. Safe Harbor

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and do not profit from writing about them.**

The klaxon sounds as soon as the _Enterprise_ starts to move.

"Mr. Spock?" Captain Pike says, swiveling in the command chair. From his position at the science station, Spock taps several computer screens in swift succession.

"Air pressure dropping on decks 12 and 13. Compensating now."

"Engineering," the captain says, punching the intercom tab on the arm of his chair. "Report."

"Two of the three tugs are at maximum thrust," Engineer Olson says, his voice shaking slightly. "The third had to power back to 65%. The outside plating was starting to buckle."

Before Pike can ask, Spock answers his next question.

"Crews have detected a hull breach near deck 12. Repairs are underway. The tug should be able to power back up within seven minutes."

Chris Pike nods and calls up the schematics on the forward viewscreen. An outline of the _Enterprise_ appears with the placement of the three space tugs lifting the larger ship into space, two under the secondary hull and one under the bow of the saucer. Tiny cracks in the hull aren't unusual or even unexpected in ship construction. Only when an earth-built ship is lifted through the atmosphere on its way to Space Dock do those flaws become apparent. Fixing them once they are identified is an easy matter—though a nerve-wrecking one.

The _Enterprise's_ own engines are silent, but the vibration from the three tugs shakes the bridge. The klaxon continues to sound until the engineering crew on deck 12 seals the leak and the air pressure stabilizes. Then in the sudden quiet, the ship gives a final lurch and is loosened from Earth's gravity, floating free, the tugs nudging it toward the orbiting platform where the final construction will take place.

If he turns the cameras Earthward, Pike knows he will be able to spot the Riverside Shipyards on the surface. After spending so much time there watching the _Enterprise_ being assembled—skeletal for so long and then in the past few months fleshed out and covered with metal skin—he's relieved to be in space, away from the vagaries of weather that can rust and warp and rattle the exposed parts of the ship. Craziness to build it on Earth instead of starting from scratch in Space Dock—but cheaper, too, and not bad publicity either—the beautiful ship making a convincing backdrop for Starfleet recruiting vids.

When the ship is within 100 kilometers of Space Dock, the tugs peal away and the ship continues its unassisted glide forward silently, softly. This is the moment Chris has been waiting for, when his ship is truly untethered, ready to fly. He shifts in his chair to tell Spock to begin the engine tests but his Vulcan first officer catches his eye and he knows he doesn't need to say a word. Instead, he nods once and Spock lets his fingers dance across the control panel. From deep within the ship a rumble starts.

"Engines online," Olson says through the intercom. "All systems functional."

"Impulse power," Chris says, and Helmsman McKenna reaches out lightly and strokes the controls. The ship lurches forward and the klaxon sounds again.

"Olson!" Chris shouts. "What the hell's going on?"

"Checking!" Olson says over the alarm.

"Captain," Spock calls from his station, "the dilithium feedback appears to be out of alignment. I may be able to adjust it in engineering—"

"Go! Go!" Chris says, and Spock is at the turbolift in a moment. As the doors open, the ship gives a sickening dip—the inertial damper in flux—and Chris sees Spock reaching out to keep from falling. Chris hits the intercom button as the lift doors close.

"Olson," he says, "use auxiliary power to get that damper fully operational. I don't want anyone hitting the floor or the ceiling."

"Aye, Captain."

It seems like forever but two minutes later the impulse engines shift from a deafening whine to the more familiar comforting, pulsing heartbeat. Standing up, Chris takes a step. The inertial damper seems to be working as well.

When the turbolift doors open again, he looks up and sees both Spock and his chief engineer exiting. As usual, Olson swaggers and walks with so much exaggerated motion that he seems larger than he really is. Spock, by contrast, is graceful and contained. For a moment Chris wonders if the two men will be able to work together. Olson's recent complaint about the change in the specifications in the transparent aluminum used to build the water turbine—changes Spock ordered—has been the latest in a round of tension between the two.

No, not between the two. On Olson's part. He's never hidden his dislike of Spock, and has, in fact, played several pranks that merely mystified the Vulcan. Spock's feelings for Olson are unknown—though Chris suspects that Spock spares little time or energy worrying about him.

When he sees Natalie at Space Dock he will ask her to snoop around, check out the hubbub about what Olson is up to these days. Pre-emptive managing—taking Olson aside for a word in his ear if he needs it. A reprimand if he warrants it.

That sort of management will be harder without Natalie.

He tries not to think about that.

"Gentlemen," he says, "report."

"The dilithium feedback has been temporarily rerouted," Spock says. "We will need to take the engines offline to effect a permanent repair."

"Aye," Olson chimes in. "The failsafe switch overloaded and triggered the feedback loop. Shouldn't be hard to fix."

"Mr. Spock?"

"I concur, Captain."

"Good. Make that your first priority. Mr. Olson—"

To Chris' astonishment, Spock interrupts him.

"Captain, with all due respect," he says, "Mr. Olson and his team are fully capable of realigning the dilithium crystals. I can use that time to correlate the onboard computer sensors and track down any other hull irregularities."

Of course he's right, Chris thinks, but he feels a wave of annoyance that he didn't suggest it first. Olson might be full of bluster but he's a good engineer. And Spock can check the computer readouts faster than anyone else.

"Very well," Chris says after a pause. "Olson, Mr. Spock seems to have faith in you. Don't let me down."

He intends it as a humorous riposte—maybe even as a way to warm Olson up to Spock—but Chris sees Olson bristle instead.

Within fifteen minutes the _Enterprise_ slides into a berth on Space Dock and the all clear sounds.

"I leave the ship in your hands, Mr. Spock," Chris says as he walks to the turbolift. "Don't stay up too late."

He almost doesn't look back at this first officer, so sure is he that Spock's expression will be unreadable, a blank, the joke completely wasted on him. But he catches a glimpse from the corner of his eye as he turns to punch the turbolift buttons—and there he sees it, an unmistakable gleam in Spock's eye, a twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Progress.

"Why are you smiling?" Natalie asks as soon as Chris steps into the main artery of Space Dock. She hands him a PADD and a stylus and points for him to sign, which he does, one eyebrow raised.

"Tell me I didn't just sign my life away," he says, handing the unread PADD back to her.

"Not at all," Natalie says. "But when you _do_ die, I now inherit all your earthly goods."

"Very funny," he says, leading the way down the corridor. Behind him he hears Natalie scurrying to catch up. "What's on for tonight? You staying or going?"

"Do you need me to stay?" she asks, and he slows until she is walking beside him.

"I want to go over the crew rotation," he says without looking at her, "and check on the requisitions. If you have time, we can do that now."

Finally he looks down at her, her hair tangled back behind her ears, her non-regulation cardigan bunched around her shoulders.

"Or if you're tired, we can do it later. I have calls to make anyway."

"Do you mind?" she says, and he's surprised at how disappointed he feels. All day he's felt her absence, wishing she were onboard when the _Enterprise_ rose up under the power of the tugs, and then later when McKenna burst into spontaneous applause at the successful docking.

She's been monitoring the progress from Space Dock, doing the necessary preliminary work to line up the construction workers who will install the sensor array, something that has to be done in the airless conditions of space.

"You'll be glad I came on ahead," she had told him when he offered her a chance to wait and ride with him on the _Enterprise_. "Everything will be ready for you."

And it is. But he isn't glad she came on ahead. He would like to have shared one last ride on a starship—even one being towed—with her.

"No," he says, "I don't mind. I'll see you in the morning."

He picks up his pace but feels her hand on his arm. Stopping, he turns to her.

"Whoa!" she says, laughing. "You want some dinner first? Or a drink? I've got time for that."

Her face is upturned toward him, her cheeks flushed as they often are, her green eyes almost luminous in the overhead light.

He would like dinner, or a drink, or both.

Or more.

But he's feeling a bit shaky tonight—the leftover energy of getting the ship from the shipyard, undoubtedly—and he doesn't trust himself not to say something stupid that would make them both uncomfortable.

So he shrugs and apes a grin.

"Maybe another time, Jolsen," he says. "You're right. It's been a long day."

Now it's her turn to be disappointed and he can't say he's sorry.

"Tell Eric I said hello," he says, and she purses her lips and nods once before turning and heading back toward the small hangar deck and the transport station.

 _That's how it's got to be,_ he thinks, walking past the cross corridor that leads to the small quarters where he bunks when he stays overnight. Instead he makes his way to the nearest bar, where music he doesn't understand blares from the ceiling and the waitress has to shout in his ear to be heard. The room is dark and spiced with an unfamiliar smoke; the only seat available is at the end of the long L-shaped bar. Amid the tumult and push of off-duty personnel, construction workers, and the sorts of shifty-looking wayfarers who have always drifted around the edges of military bases, Chris can hardly think.

_Perfect._

He lifts his finger and the bartender fills a tumbler with something amber-colored and hands it to him. Someone shouts something so raucous and raw that Chris pivots around on the barstool, instinctively scanning the crowd for an incipient fight, but the shouting mellows into laughter and Chris relaxes his shoulders.

He would have welcomed a fight to break up. Something to do other than sit here getting drunk, feeling maudlin.

And then from the corner of his eye he sees the _Enterprise_ , the unfinished nacelles filling most of the window on the other side of the bar. From this angle he can't see the primary hull at all but it is the _Enterprise_ all right, her lean lines unmistakable.

 _Her_ lines, Chris muses. _Her._ No wonder ships have always been feminine in Standard—evoking images of beauty and power and an allegiance that is something beyond mere appreciation or loyalty.

His ship, _her_. He should be celebrating right now, not sitting here moping over whatever this is in his glass—some local rotgut that probably isn't real alcohol.

Against the blackness of space the _Enterprise_ almost shines. A wave of pleasure—part pride, part excitement—washes over him. This is what he has chosen—this ship, this next step forward. Anything else pales in comparison. Any other path would lead him so far away that he might never find his way back. It's a choice that requires his absolute devotion, unwavering.

He believes that. He has to believe that.

She's his, this ship. And he owes her his undivided attention.

X X X X X X X

They became drinking buddies after the accident.

At least, that's how Chris introduced her to his younger brother the first time she met him.

 _Jolsen, my drinking buddy when we're not on duty_ , he said. Not Natalie, or even Nat, and nothing about the way he liked to pop his head in at her office door to invite her to the mess hall for a quick bite.

They were temporarily stationed on Starbase 11 at the time, waiting while the _Tiberius_ was being repaired. At least half of the crew was furloughed, back home killing time until called to ship out. Everyone else cadged housing as best they could on the starbase and worked alongside ringer construction crews and specialists called in from Riverside.

First Chris' brother came for a short visit, and then both her sisters made a point of coming by—as if everyone needed to see and touch their family members in person to believe that they had survived.

The gravitic mine that blew out a twenty meter hole in the side of the _Tiberius_ was never traced. It could have been planted by terrorists or was a legitimate defensive measure accidentally set adrift by one of the nearby Collective planets. At any rate, no one expected a mine to suddenly show up in a well-traveled shipping lane. If the _Tiberius_ hadn't struck it, a smaller commercial vessel might have. Instead of five dead—including Captain April—the casualties on a smaller ship would have been more.

Or at least that's what someone giving the eulogy for the five crew members said from the podium. At the time both Chris and Natalie had bristled at the suggestion that the wreckage and deaths served any purpose at all.

After the initial shock had worn off and her sisters were reassured that she was okay, Natalie settled into a routine on Starbase 11 that left her thankfully so tired every night she fell into a dreamless sleep. As records officer she dealt with all the paperwork for requisitioned materials—and now that the ship needed massive repairs, the paperwork increased exponentially.

Despite the workload—or perhaps because of it, and because he was serving as acting captain—she saw Commander Pike many times each day.

_Captain Pike._

If she felt odd saying it at first, soon it felt right.

Assuming command changed him in a way she wasn't prepared for—made him more serious, more focused, more accessible. Not that he hadn't been serious before and focused, too—but as first officer he had been holding back something that he had now, some gravitas that made his crew look to him instinctively for answers.

She found herself enjoying their time working out the string of complications that made up her day. As captain, Pike didn't hesitate to use his contacts in Starfleet to get around the bureaucratic stonewalling that drove Natalie crazy. As her drinking buddy, he was a surprisingly good listener and she found herself sharing stories about her childhood, about her teenaged decision to apply for the Academy, about missing the first cut-off by two points and feeling such despair that she toyed with the idea of running off with her boyfriend at the time to the Martian colonies.

"Bet you were a pistol in high school," Pike said over a late afternoon beer, this one in a small bar on the starbase.

"Not really," Natalie said, tipping her bottle and taking a sip. "But I always knew what I wanted. Same as you."

"That's not always a good thing," Pike said, frowning. Natalie watched as he lifted the beer bottle to his lips.

For a moment his hand hovered in the air and his gaze became unfocused, distant. Then he took a swig and set the bottle down heavily on the table.

"Because?" she prompted, and he frowned.

"Because," he said, "you can be so busy following one path that you miss other…things. Other options that might be just as good. Or better."

"Like what?"

"Come on, Jolsen," he said. "You know what I mean."

And she had.

They had spoken around the edges, had hinted and alluded and joked about it, but neither had ever put words to what they were doing now—as _drinking buddies_ , as people who sought each other out as companions.

And they never would have spoken around the edges if not for T'Parr months ago.

On the evening before the _Tiberius_ arrived at Vulcan, Natalie arranged a formal dinner for the elderly Vulcan with the senior officers. At T'Parr's insistence Natalie had joined them.

Captain April had been gracious as he always was, but reserved. His wife, on the other hand, was the gregarious one, warm and engaging and almost too inquisitive—Natalie could feel T'Parr pull back, almost physically, when Dr. April asked her about the Vulcan practice of bonding with their mates _._

Dr. April seemed to sense it, too, and apologized.

"I didn't mean to intrude," she explained, "but the idea that you and your husband were linked in some extraordinary way is quite touching."

Natalie saw Dr. April share a glance with her husband, one so freighted with affection and understanding that later, after Captain April was killed trying to rescue the trapped crewmembers on deck six, Natalie had trouble remembering him any other way than how she saw him at that moment, his face lit up with quiet joy.

T'Parr had given a tiny shrug—one shoulder inching higher—and she said, "Not so different, I think, than what you and the captain share. Or the connection I see between Commander Pike and Lieutenant Jolsen."

Both Natalie and Pike had protested then—he raising his hands like stop signs, she saying, "No, we aren't together—"

T'Parr had shrugged again and said, "I see what I see."

Dr. April had directed the conversation to something else, though Natalie couldn't remember what.

After the meal the Commander offered to walk her back to her quarters and she hadn't had the presence of mind to say what was on the tip of her tongue, that it wasn't necessary.

They walked in silence to the nearest turbolift. An awkward moment when they both reached for the call button at the same time, but Pike lowered his hand first and Natalie felt him watching her as she pressed forward.

"About T'Parr," he said as soon as the lift doors shut, and Natalie stiffened. Whatever the Vulcan thought she saw, she was wrong. Commander Pike was just that—her commanding officer. Brash, annoying, cocky—a string of unflattering adjectives lined up ready for her use if he said anything inappropriate.

"What about her?" Natalie said, crossing her arms.

"I mean," Pike said, running his fingers along the edge of his dress collar, a gesture that betrayed his nervousness. Without wanting to, Natalie felt a wave of sympathy for him.

"Yes? What do you mean?"

"It's just," Pike said, "I'm really glad you and I have started to…I don't know, get along better? Is that fair?"

 _Where was this going?_ Natalie frowned and nodded.

"And now," he said, "she's muddied the water and I hope things don't get awkward again."

Uncrossing her arms, Natalie said, "What are you talking about?"

"All that stuff about being connected. I think she meant that she sees us together—you know, working—and she jumped to a conclusion—"

To her shame, Natalie began to enjoy Pike's discomfort. She thought about his chewing her out about the crossing the equator ceremony, comparing her to a mule, taking offense when she tried to keep his bookkeeping straight—he could sweat for a minute.

"But Vulcans don't lie," Natalie said, lowering her voice until it was just above the whine of the turbolift. "Everyone knows that."

She saw Pike flush—and her stomach did an unexpected flip.

"But I suppose they can be mistaken," she added.

As the words tumbled from her, she saw Pike react as if stung. Her intention had been to make him laugh but she realized too late how badly she calculated what this meant to him. To her.

"I'm sorry," she said, holding up her hand to keep him from following her off the lift. "I didn't mean—"

But she cut her sentence short, letting it mean both more and less than she intended.

She was sorry she teased him, and more than that, sorry she let him think T'Parr was wrong.

But that was half a year ago, and so much had happened since then.

For the past few weeks as they lived and worked on Starbase 11, they danced around what wasn't said.

Instead, they became _drinking buddies_.

"Want another?" Pike said, holding up his empty beer bottle, and she shook her head.

_What did she want?_

For so long she thought she wanted to get into space, but once she was there she wasn't sure. It was thrilling, of course, but also mind-numbingly boring for long stretches—no different from any other job…until a gravitic mine made it so different that she wasn't sure what to tell anyone who wasn't there about what she did, what she felt.

She and Pike talked about this often, how no one back on Earth could truly understand the terror of being on a damaged ship in space, or the courage and resolve needed to master that terror and carry on with their training.

_What did she want?_

She wasn't sure anymore. She didn't want another beer so she stood and Pike threw a couple of credits on the table.

Her quarters were closest to the bar and within a few minutes she was at her door, palming it open.

"Thank you," she said, turning to tell the commander good night, startled that he was standing so close. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He didn't move.

His breath was warm and pleasantly boozy; she caught herself as she swayed toward him.

"Commander, I—" she said, and then she knew that he was going to kiss her. Some invisible, inevitable force was pulling them together as they stood in her open doorway, something unacknowledged but real. She saw him lower his eyes until he was gazing at her lips and she parted them, slightly, and listed forward like someone being carried by the tide.

 _What did she want?_ This, certainly.

And yet—

"Good evening, Commander," she heard someone say behind them, and the moment shattered. They sprang apart, Pike nodding to the crewmember in the corridor, she retreating a step.

"I…really have to go," she said when he looked back at her, and he said, "If you're sure."

Of course she wasn't sure, but she smiled and let the door shut between them.

 _Nothing's going to happen,_ she told herself like a mantra that night as she got ready for bed. _This is how it has to be._

X X X X X X X X

All day as she's worked in the lab, Nyota's kept the newsfeed in the corner of her monitor. Almost in real time, the feed details all the minutiae of the _Enterprise_ lift up—from the first casting off of the anchor lines at Riverside to the last connected umbilical at Space Dock—Earth Birth to New Berth, some dipsy announcer says before signing off. Nyota rolls her eyes.

And takes in a deep breath. Until that moment she hasn't realized how anxious she has been all day. Lift ups aren't without danger—although in the past few decades, serious mishaps are rare. No sudden collapses of hull integrity, no critical struts giving way as the ships press their way through the atmosphere. Those sorts of catastrophes are almost lost in memory.

Still—seeing the _Enterprise_ safely in Space Dock is a relief, a weight off her shoulders.

Not least of all because the past month leading up to the lift up has kept Spock so busy that they have seen each other only twice, and then in fleeting glances as they passed each other en route from one place to another.

Thank goodness for Chris Thomasson's comm. She and Spock have been able to talk almost daily with no one the wiser.

"Have you heard from the Commander?"

Hunched over the monitor nearest the door of the lab, Nyota jumps when Professor Artura speaks. Usually she hears him approaching, his slight shuffle making a sibilant sound on the tile floors. She must be more distracted than she realizes.

She looks up at the Andorian, his antennae arched forward in attention. With a flick of her thumb she maximizes the newsfeed so that the picture fills the monitor. There is the _Enterprise_ , a few running lights the only illumination. A second shot taken from much further away shows all of Space Dock, the _Enterprise_ and other ships looking for all the world like elaborate Christmas ornaments on a metal tree.

"No," she says. "He probably hasn't disembarked yet."

"Perhaps he will soon," Professor Artura says, his lisp more pronounced at the end of the day when he is tired.

Nyota doesn't try to hide the fact that she and Spock are in communication—at least not from Professor Artura. In the past he's proven himself their advocate, and Nyota trusts him not to give them away.

He pats her quickly on the shoulder and says, "I wonder if I could ask a favor," and without hesitation Nyota says, "Sure." Right now the lab is empty—Pavel Chekov left half an hour earlier—and her next student sent a note this afternoon telling her he is going to be a few minutes late. "What can I do for you?"

"You remember K'ev?"

Nyota was certain that Professor Artura was going to ask her to make him some tea or fetch his mail from the post office—or one of the many little tasks she performs regularly as his assistant—so his question throws her off guard.

Of course she remembers K'ev. At the last Federation Conference he had been part of the Andorian delegation, an Aenar, one of the race of blind super-telepaths from Andoria. Nyota filled in one day during the conference when his assistant had fallen ill.

"His first child is being named," Professor Artura says, "and he has asked me to attend the ceremony. Quite inconvenient, really, but I can't think of a good reason not to go."

"To Andoria?"

"Oh, yes," the professor says, his antennae dipping as he nods. "These ceremonies are always held at home, and every family member who can is expected to attend. Although we are just distant cousins, K'ev has honored me by asking me to be his child's name keeper. If it weren't so far, I'd be happy about going."

"I don't see what I can—"

"My house," Professor Artura says. "My house sitter canceled and now, you see, I need someone. It isn't far from campus, and you don't have to stay there if you don't want to—though you could, you know. It's not faculty housing but in a quiet neighborhood near Kober Street. Get lots of studying done. It's twenty minutes walking—ten for you."

"I'm not sure I understand," Nyota says. "Do you have pets? Is that why you need a house sitter?"

"No, no!" Professor Artura says, the corners of his mouth turned up. "No pets, but many, many plants. I'm embarrassed to show you, I have so many. If I'm away for even a day, some of them might die."

He goes on to tell her that because Andoria is an ice planet, he has fallen in love with Terran flora—the luscious grasses and flowers and trees and bushes—and has filled his house with potted plants. His tiny yard is so crowded with exotic shrubbery that the fescue that once grew there has been covered over.

"I'm not sure I'd be good with plants," Nyota hedges. She doesn't really want to stay so far off campus, especially now that the summer session is winding down and she will have a couple of weeks before the fall semester begins. Her mother is long overdue for a visit—and since the _Enterprise_ is in Space Dock, Spock's schedule may open up. If she's tied to a house sitting job—

"Oh, dear," Professor Artura says, his voice genuinely troubled. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't an emergency—"

"When are you leaving?" Nyota asks. She could post a note on the job boards for the professor, find a student who's staying over the break.

"My shuttle leaves tonight," he says, startling her. No wonder he sounds upset. "I won't be gone long. A week at most. Perhaps less. And I'll make it worth your time."

"Well—" she says, and Professor Artura's face breaks into a smile. "If you give me good instructions on what to do with each plant."

"Absolutely," he says, patting her arm. "After you close up the lab, walk me home and I'll show you around."

From his description, Nyota expects an overgrown jungle, but the professor's small bungalow is neat and orderly, the plants lining the front walkway trimmed back. Almost every surface inside the house is covered with a planter or pot of some kind, green and purple and red fronds and leaves and spikes flowing from them.

Yet the rooms are not so much oppressive as whimsical. In one corner of the living area is a small tree in a ceramic bowl that looks almost like a Vulcan _asenoi_. The professor has attached boxes to the inside of every window and tiny pink and white flowers bloom in them. The effect is charming.

"Here's the list," he says, handing her a small PADD. "Some of the larger plants require watering twice a day, though if you can't, don't worry. The smaller ones are more fragile."

He bustles into his bedroom, returning in a moment with a travel bag around his shoulders.

"Please forgive my haste," the Andorian says, "but I will miss my transport if I don't leave now. You have the key?"

Nyota holds it up to show him and he says, "Cadet Uhura, please make yourself at home. As I said, you are welcome to stay here. There's a guest room at the end of the hall."

"That won't be necessary," Nyota says quickly, walking Professor Artura to the front door. "I'll go ahead and water everything now before heading back to the dorm."

"As you wish," Professor Artura says, heading down the walkway to the sidewalk along the street.

For a moment Nyota stands at the door and watches him recede. It _is_ a quiet neighborhood—with leafy trees arching overhead along the street. The houses are small but cared for. In the distance she can hear the voices of children, playing.

Back inside the house she begins systematically reading through the professor's list, a meticulous one with the scientific name of each plant alphabetized and a thumbnail description and instructions for its care highlighted.

Unfortunately the professor has not identified which plants are where in the house, and Nyota frowns over the description of the first one. _Aurelius gordonis, a spiny fern with bulbous roots, requiring daily misting._ Looking around the living area, she sees at least two ferns that fit that description.

This is going to be harder than she thought.

The doorbell startles her. Professor Artura must have left something behind and she has his key. Good. She can ask him to identify which plants are in which room before he heads back out.

Stepping swiftly to the door, she pulls it open widely.

And there is Spock, still wearing the science blues he must have had on all day.

If she looks shocked, he looks concerned.

"What are you—" Nyota begins, but the expression on his face stops her. Worry, certainly, but not surprise. He had known she was here.

"Is Professor Artura here?" he asks, and she shakes her head and says, "He left a few minutes ago. For Andoria. Some family obligation. He asked me to—"

She steps back and waves behind her to the plants crowding the tables and shelves.

Another look crosses Spock's face as he follows her inside and watches her shut the door behind him. She feels his eyes examining her intensely.

"What's going on?" she says.

"Professor Artura sent me a message that you were here and in need of urgent assistance. I assumed you were ill."

For a moment Nyota is too stunned to speak. Professor Artura had contacted Spock? Had directed him here? That didn't make any sense.

"Why would he say that I needed—"

And then she knows. The Andorian has given them a safe harbor if they want it. _For a week, maybe less._

She sees that Spock has reached the same conclusion, one eyebrow climbing up into his bangs.

"So you do not require any assistance?" he says, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

_Two can play this game._

"On the contrary," she says, moving close enough to feel his breath on her face. "You are just the person I need."

Something in his expression darkens and softens, a paradox that she has come to recognize as the beginning of his desire. Her own breathing quickens and she has to force herself to move away.

"Nyota—" he says to call her back but she grins and says, "That is, if you want to be helpful."

His brow creases slightly and she laughs.

"For instance," she says, moving to the table where several large plants occupy a single container. "These plants here. I know this one is a philodendron, but I don't recognize these others. Without sufficient data," she says, her voice low and husky, her gaze at him deliberately _come hither_ , "I can't determine how to take care of their…needs. Do you know?"

"This," he says, moving until he is standing beside her, "is an _abelia grandiflora_. It prefers sun and grows as tall as six feet. Not usually an indoor plant. The professor's choosing to grow it here is…unusual."

"Indeed," Nyota says, running her hand along one branch filled with tiny petals. "And this?"

" _Pleioblastus auricoma,_ " he says immediately, and Nyota laughs again.

"How do you know that?" she teases. She sees him gazing at her hand and she lets her fingers drift over the striped leaves. "I think you made that up."

She reaches out and lets her hand brush his own and is rewarded with a jolt of his heat, his longing.

"Vulcans do not lie," he says, reaching around her and pulling her close.

"A liar would say that," she says, tipping her chin up. "You can't expect me to take your word for it."

She leans forward slightly, an invitation for a kiss, but instead she feels him unclasp his arms and release her.

"What—" she says, but he steps past her and says, "Then let me prove it to you. This is _miscanthus sinensis,_ also known as maiden grass. It has the peculiar property of changing from green to burgundy in the autumn. Do not overwater it."

"That's good to know," she says, not a little miffed that he is continuing to play the professor. "Some. Other. Time."

"Did you not say that you needed my assistance?" he says, standing upright and tucking his hands behind his back— _the position_ , she jokingly calls it.

"But I didn't say _how_ ," she says.

She sees a glimmer in his eye and she moves close again, circling her arms around his waist, feeling him wait a beat before he returns her embrace.

"Then specify," he says, and she lifts her face and kisses him softly.

"This," she says, and he returns her kiss.

"And this," she says, running her hand up to his cheek. His breath hitches and his eyes close when she strokes her thumb over his ear.

"Are you paying attention?" she whispers, but he's beyond hearing.

Later—much later—he takes her to each of Professor Artura's plants and names the ones he knows, looks up the ones that are unfamiliar, and she touches them carefully, tenderly, as he intones how much light they need, how to make them thrive.


	7. Navigating the Shoals

**Disclaimer: The bank owns my car and my house, and I don't even come close to owning anything as tremendous as the Star Trek franchise. That should go without saying!**

The blonde woman standing outside the lecture hall looks vaguely familiar, though Natalie can't place her. She's obviously looking for someone, her head partly obscuring the small rectangular glass insert in the door.

"Excuse me," Natalie says, pushing past her.

The lecture hall is a typical amphitheater of chairs angled toward the speaker at the bottom of an incline. Right now that speaker is Commander Spock. On the wall behind him is a large screen with the image of a Groton transverse switch, something Natalie wouldn't have recognized two weeks ago but now could sketch with her eyes closed.

That and about 50 other computer components that are currently giving her a headache. Most, like the Groton transverse switch, have been created to fill some need on the _Enterprise_. Some are already being installed; most are still hostages of obsessive engineers who aren't quite ready to let them go…causing such a backlog that on the truly bad days, Natalie is certain that the launch date nine months from now will come and go with no ship.

"It'll all work out," Chris has told her one too many times. The last time he did she snapped at him.

"All well and good for you to say," she said, "but I'm the one who'll look like an idiot if it doesn't."

"Oh, no," Chris said, "we'll look like idiots together."

"Small comfort," she muttered, trying to suppress a smile.

The last few rows of the lecture hall are completely empty and Natalie slides into a seat on the aisle, craning her neck backward as she does. The woman at the door must not have found who she was looking for. She's gone.

Commander Spock doesn't miss a beat in his recitation but Natalie has the distinct impression that he knows she is there. Two students raise their hands and ask perceptive questions when the Commander winds up his lecture and opens up the floor. A third student asks a question that reveals his inattention—it's the kind of simple-minded question that would have been appropriate at the beginning of the presentation but not now, an hour or so later after everything he asks has clearly been covered.

Natalie holds her breath to see how Spock will react. Around her she feels the class tense up and grow silent as well.

Fortunately the student is perceptive enough to pick up the significance of the sudden stillness in the room.

"Sorry, sir," he says. "I retract the question."

"As there are no further questions," Spock says, "class is dismissed."

The students tumble up the steps and out of the hall as if released from a spell, though Natalie sees the first two students who asked questions making their way to the front where they hold up their PADDs and show Spock something. From here she can't hear what they are saying, though both nod and seem satisfied soon enough and join the crowd exiting the back of the room.

When the last student lets the door swing behind him, Natalie stands and waits as Spock gathers his things and heads up the aisle toward her.

"Commander," she says by way of greeting.

Spock meets her eye and says, "I was unaware that you were coming."

 _How's that for hello,_ Natalie thinks. So much for Vulcan niceties.

She wouldn't blame him for being surprised. Until an hour ago she had been on Space Dock with Chris and Engineer Olson hovering around the warp monitors, waiting for Spock's final calculations to be factored in before actually revving up the engines for the first time. Normally Spock would have been there too, but today is the second day of the fall term at the Academy. Chris could have insisted that he cancel his class or dismiss the students early, but he and the dean have already had words about Spock continuing to teach a class in the immediate run-up to the launch.

"No one's indispensable," Chris complained loudly when the dean argued that he needed Spock to teach the advanced programming seminar.

"Exactly," the dean had retorted. "So get someone else to hold your hand."

That extra hand-holding has fallen to Natalie, of course. Hence her crash course in Groton transverse switches.

"The captain has the feed set up," Natalie says as they start down the hall toward Spock's office. "I'm catching a shuttle to my sister's house in an hour and I told him I'd come by to see if you need anything."

She half expects him to say he doesn't. Instead, when he unlocks his office he directs her to the secondary monitor on a desk across the room and she seats herself there and begins scrolling through the spreadsheet he has up. From the corner of her eye she sees him settle into a chair at another desk. He taps the keyboard and the chart on her monitor begins to change.

"Engineer Olson's new test data is coming through now," Spock says, and Natalie watches as the rows of numbers shift so rapidly that she has trouble following them.

Her comm chimes—Chris' signal that he's ready to begin—and she sets it to speaker.

"Is Spock with you?" she hears him ask, and she says, "We're at his office. He's putting in the new figures now."

Earlier, the preliminary engine tests indicated the likelihood that an unstable envelope would develop when the ship went to warp, hurtling it into an artificially generated black hole. At least one ship, the _Antares,_ was destroyed that way eight years ago. The loss of the ship and crew were not only personal tragedies but a public relations nightmare as well, setting support for the fleet upgrade back by years.

Last night Olson and his team installed software they expect will correct the problem. So far the results from the tests today suggest they are right.

While Spock works, Natalie watches him. Anyone else would be hunched over the keyboard but he sits up preternaturally straight in his chair, his wrist held up as he taps the monitor so swiftly that his fingers are almost a blur.

"Please ask the engineering team to rerun the stress test for aft section B-24-Port on Deck 12," Spock says without looking up.

"The section that showed signs of strain in the lift up?"

Spock doesn't answer and Natalie relays the message into her comm.

Another data burst scrolls across the monitor and Spock pauses, looking more intense than usual.

"Well?" Natalie says.

"What is it?" Chris says over the comm and Natalie says, "Commander?"

For a moment Spock doesn't move but then he sits back a fraction.

"The warp configuration is accurate, but the stress tests show a 37.45% increase in strain in the interior struts adjacent to the B-24-Port. It could be an indication of premature metal fatigue."

Metal fatigue in new construction is rare—but Natalie knows that at least two other shipments from the Kessel ore freighters have come in under specs in the past two months. Some of the struts on the _Enterprise_ were undoubtedly made with triganium mined on the ring planets serviced by the Kessel freighters. Tracking down the origins of the struts will require all kinds of convoluted paperwork. She sighs and says into her comm," Did you hear that?"

Instead of Chris she hears Olson saying, "And it could be a sensor anomaly. We've had to replace two other sensors in that area."

Without shifting her gaze from Spock's face, Natalie sees him react—slightly—with irritation? Impatience?

"Captain," he says, "removing the plating and taking a sample of the strut materials will give a more accurate readout."

"And take at least twelve hours!"

That from Olson, his own irritation and impatience unmistakable.

Even without being there Natalie knows what she would see if she were—Olson standing with his hands moving wildly, Chris tilting toward the computer readouts, his eyes flicking across them, looking for a reason to go ahead and do what everyone has been waiting for—turning the damn ship on.

Or at least, putting her in neutral and pressing the gas to feel the rumble…Chris' own metaphor.

"Mr. Spock?" Chris says, and Spock says, "I recommend waiting, Captain."

Silence. Natalie lets her gaze drift around the small office—one Spock must share with another professor. The desk where she sits is cluttered with photocubes and stacks of flimplasts. A ceramic cup beside the computer monitor is stuffed with styluses. A matching cup in the corner still has an inch of cold coffee in the bottom.

By contrast, Spock's desk is almost bare, a single metal tin sitting beside his PADD.

"Nothing ventured…let's give it a go," Chris says at last, and Natalie feels a contradictory mix of relief and anxiety. The warp engine test is the largest benchmark of any ship. Until the engines are safely online, everything else is simply decoration.

Nothing in Spock's expression or posture changes but Natalie is sure he disapproves. That same stillness she had felt earlier in the lecture hall when the inattentive student had dared to ask a stupid question—well, here it is again.

The computer readouts shift and Natalie knows the information streaming across means more to Spock than it does to her.

"We're up!" Olson shouts, but at once even Natalie can see that the readings show a problem. She taps several screens until she pulls up a large squiggly-looking bar graph—the stress sensors stationed at regular intervals on the hull. One graph stands out as unusual and Natalie enlarges the image.

Aft section B-24-Port has been breached.

Almost as soon as that information registers, she hears Chris ordering the engines to power down. Olson is dispatched to check the damage.

"You were right," she says to Spock. His expression is inscrutable, his face a mask.

Then the damage report comes through—the collapse of an internal strut will require major repairs. Two weeks work, at least, Olson says, his voice almost contrite.

The next hour slips past quickly with contingency plans for redeploying the construction crew and requisitioning the needed replacement struts. A report, too, will have to be filed, and a tracer put on the Kessel freighter that delivered the metal.

When she finishes and signs off, she runs her fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ears and catching a glimpse of her chronometer.

"I have to go," she tells Spock. Her words seem abrupt and she feels the need to soften her bad mood by being more sociable. "My brother-in-law's family is having some big…thing…tonight…and I promised my sister I'd be there."

Spock folds his hands in front of him and tilts his head slightly, clearly prepared to sit and listen. Natalie is thrown off guard—after all, they've never had a genuinely personal conversation before now. She can count on one hand the number of times they've talked about anything other than work. Yet here he sits, signaling his undivided attention. She feels compelled to continue.

"See," she says, "my sister is having a rough time right now—she lost a baby a month ago—and I feel like—well, I'm the oldest—I've always had this sort of protective relationship with her because she's the youngest—"

She pauses for a moment and lets out a gust of air. She's rambling and she knows it, but Spock continues to look at her with such steadfastness that she hears herself adding, "So when she asked me to come to this new year's celebration—I mean, I know it's just September but it's some sort of holiday—"

"Rosh Hashanah," Spock supplies, and Natalie blinks and says, "Yeah. Anyway, I wanted to be there. To show her that the new year will be better. It has to be."

For another beat he holds her in his gaze and then he reaches to the small metal tin on his desk, picks it up, and offers it to her.

"What's this?" she asks, and Spock says, "For your sister."

Natalie glances down at the label on the top.

"Where did you get this?" she asks in wonder. The tin contains honey, a commodity so rare that it can run several hundred credits for a few ounces. At one time, Natalie knows, honey was commonplace, but the double whammy of massive worldwide viral and fungal infections eliminated most honeybees more than a hundred years ago. Only in the past decade have apiarists been able to keep colonies viable enough to start producing honey again.

"My cousin Rachel sent it," he says. "I do not want it."

His words are oddly harsh and Natalie looks up, catching him frowning for a second.

"Are you sure?" she says, and he nods. "I wanted to get a gift but haven't had time. This will be perfect."

Only later, when she is sitting on the shuttle to Chicago, does Natalie realize how odd the conversation had been. That Spock knows about Rosh Hashanah is a little surprising, though he might make a practice of keeping abreast of human traditions. That his cousin had sent him honey is even more surprising. Where would a Vulcan have had access to Terran honey?

And most surprising of all was Spock's willingness to part with it—no, not just his willingness, but the anger that seemed to motivate him—the same wave of scorn that had silenced the foolish student in the lecture hall. There's a story there, she's sure.

Much later—five months and one day later, to be exact—she will recall that look on Spock's face. When the telemetry from the _Enterprise_ broadcasts the unbelievable—the complete and utter destruction of Vulcan—she will recall the flash of fury in his eyes. Standing in headquarters, watching the sketchy feeds and listening to the space chatter as the destruction of the fleet becomes clear, she will think that his anger that day was a more honest omen than her silly, ironic assertion about the new year, that it was guaranteed to be better than the last.

X X X X X X X X

The repairs of the _Tiberius_ took six months, not the two that were projected. Nine weeks into the work, when it was clear that the damage was more extensive than first assumed, Starfleet reassigned the crew that had been idled and sent home. Most went to the _Darwin_ , a science vessel half the size of the _Tiberius_ serving as a scout ship along the Neutral Zone.

At the same time, Chris was promoted to actual captain. His first action was to recommend Natalie as his XO.

"I don't know anyone better," he said when she protested that she didn't have enough experience. "Gonzalez is being moved, Carson's leaving for the _Exeter_ , and J'Ali is retiring ahead of schedule. That leaves you to help me mind the store."

He could tell she was flattered and nervous in equal measure, but his confidence wasn't given lightly. No one else was as comfortable telling him hard truths as Natalie was. That more than made up for her inexperience.

Their days on Starbase 11 were hectic but not unpleasant. Most days they camped out in a makeshift office near the shipyards, taking occasional breaks to one of the ethnic food stands that dotted the public atrium. When they were too tired to eat, they left their cramped office and sat in front of the large viewing windows, watching the construction crews in space suits maneuvering around the docked ships.

At night, however, they were _drinking buddies_.

The first time Chris called Natalie his drinking buddy, he watch a frown flit across her brow.

"What's wrong, Jolsen?" he teased, leading the way to Davy Jones' Locker, a bar not much bigger than a walk-in closet back on Earth. "You don't think of yourself as a connoisseur of spirits?"

"I don't think of myself as your _buddy_ ," Natalie said wryly. To his surprise, Chris was hurt.

One night near the end of the six months, they worked so late that all of the bars—even the seediest ones—had closed, and Chris invited Natalie to his quarters for a drink instead.

"That's probably not a good idea," she said, not meeting his gaze.

He tried to keep his irritation at her rebuff from his voice but even he could hear how petulant he sounded. "Why not? It's not like we're on the ship right now. This is our own little world. Who cares what we're up to?"

To his astonishment she stopped suddenly in her tracks and held her hand to his chest.

"That's the problem," she said, meeting his eyes at last.

In the dim lights of the corridor he searched her face for some hint about what to do next. As usual, her hair was shoved carelessly behind her ears, an untidiness Chris found endearing and unaffected. He lifted his hand, a dim notion to tuck one errant strand back, but she ducked her head.

"I have to go," she said, turning and hurrying down the corridor ahead of him. Her quarters were only a few meters away and in another moment she had palmed open the door and disappeared inside.

_What just happened here?_

He stood for a moment before turning on his heel and heading back to his own quarters.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he thought.

He was acting like a mopey teenager, his head in the clouds.

And over a woman who kept letting him know that she wasn't interested, that she wanted to keep things above board, professional, uncomplicated.

He got that. It made sense. He had dated a fair number of professional women, ambitious women who wanted to keep things from getting personal—had slept with enough to feel secure in his ability to woo a woman when he put his mind to it—had even believed himself in love a time or two.

But always that was a sideshow to what really mattered—getting on a ship and getting into space.

Until now. Here he was, captain of his own ship, and he kept stumbling like some novice on a stage, forgetting his lines, missing his mark.

_Get a grip._

"Captain Pike?"

The voice came from a short man standing in the middle of the corridor blocking the way. His clothes were civilian and he looked too old to be a new crew member reporting for duty. Chris stopped and crossed his arms.

"I am," he said, and the man stepped forward, his hand outstretched. For a moment Chris was nonplussed until he realized that the man was offering to shake his hand.

"Do I know you?" Chris said. The man's grip was surprisingly strong and Chris glanced more closely at him. Not a construction worker. A foreman, perhaps?

"Samuel T. Cogley, attorney at law," he said. "You look surprised."

Chris let his arms fall to his side and frowned.

"I'm sorry, Mr.—"

"Cogley. Samuel T."

"Cogley. I'm not sure why—"

"I'm offering to represent you."

If Chris had been baffled before, now he was completely flummoxed. The man didn't seem crazy, but sometimes people stuck for long periods on starbases had been known to become delusional, or worse. Perhaps this man—

"I hope this doesn't seem presumptuous," Cogley went on, "but I know how busy you are, and it doesn't hurt to get my name out there. Of course, there are two other fine attorneys on Starbase 11, but if I do say so myself, I have more experience."

"I'm sorry," Chris said, shaking his head, "but I don't need an attorney. Someone's given you the wrong information. Or is playing a prank. I'm captain of the USS _Tiberius_ and—"

"And you've been laying over while your ship is being repaired. I've seen you around," Cogley said.

"Then you'll excuse me," Chris said, moving to the side of the corridor to press past the older man.

"Captain, "Cogley said loudly, and Chris began to feel annoyed. "I know this isn't how things are done on Earth, but out here we do things a little differently. If the judge advocate general's office hadn't posted the orders for depositions, I wouldn't be here now."

At that Chris paused and looked more carefully at Cogley.

"What are you talking about? What orders for depositions?"

"Oh," Cogley said, his face flushing, "I'm sorry. You haven't read your mail today?"

"No, I've been working. What are you talking about?"

The attorney ran his hand through his sparse graying hair and sighed.

"Listen, Captain," he said. "I'll leave my card with you and you can get back to me—"

"Don't move," Chris said, pulling his comm from his pocket and thumbing to his electronic mail. Junk, junk, a letter from his brother, a notice about a requisition backorder, and there—there it was, an official Starfleet notification. He scanned it quickly and looked up.

"Well?" he asked Samuel T. Cogley. "What does this mean?"

"It means, Captain," Cogley said, "that Starfleet thinks you might be guilty of fraternization. And they want to ask you and your first officer some questions."

X X X X X X X

The bell attached to the deli door tinkles when Nyota and Gaila enter. Arun looks up from the counter and nods, his equivalent of a smile. His gaze lingers for a moment longer over Gaila—though by now Nyota is used to the effect her roommate has on the males of most species—before he returns to flipping through a paper magazine.

"How's Vijay?" Nyota calls over her shoulder and Arun looks up again. Not one to make small talk, he says, "Getting married."

If she and Gaila weren't in a hurry, she would have pressed Arun for more details. Since Vijay returned to India, Nyota's trips to the deli have been less interesting and far quieter. Asking a simple of question of Vijay could lead to a ten-minute conversation punctuated with his wry observations and self-deprecating humor. Arun, by contrast, rarely says more than two words.

Of course, since Spock's hearing, she's limited her visits to the market deli. Situated across the street from the faculty housing, it had at one time been a favorite place to grab a quick lunch—back when Spock's apartment had been their sanctuary.

No more. Now the only time she drops in is when she has been off campus and comes in through the east gate.

Today she and Gaila have been in town looking for a gift for Nyota's mother. Her birthday was yesterday but a long-standing tradition makes belated birthday wishes the norm, even expected and desired. The joke among the Uhuras has always been that a birthday isn't over until the last gift is given.

At the ceramics shop on Kober Street Nyota selected a fragile-looking bud vase and had it wrapped for shipping. In the box she added a card that said _Now it's over._ She can imagine her mother laughing when she reads it.

The cooler in the back of the deli is usually stocked with wraps of several types, but by the end of the week, Arun sometimes lets the supply run low. Today the only offerings are cheese and tomato, a combination that doesn't appeal much to either Nyota or Gaila, but they shrug wordlessly and take them to one of the small round tables in the back.

"It's still better than whatever the cafeteria is serving," Gaila says, taking a tentative bite.

"I'm not sure that's true," Nyota grins. "But it _is_ faster."

The bell tinkles again and she looks idly toward the front of the market. A neatly-dressed blonde woman makes her way to the counter where Arun closes his magazine and actually smiles.

"What is it?" Gaila says, following Nyota's gaze.

"It's that woman," Nyota says. "Andrea."

"That's her name?" Gaila says, turning back around and sniffing the rest of her wrap before setting it down. "I just call her The Stalker."

Before Nyota can ask, Gaila continues.

"She hangs around the computer building. Okay, _hangs around_ is too strong. She _shows up_ at weird times."

"Spock," Nyota says, and Gaila nods.

"Yep," she says. "If he sees her coming, he heads in the other direction. You'd think she'd get the message."

The food on Nyota's tongue is sawdust and she struggles to swallow.

"You don't need to worry," Gaila says, misinterpreting Nyota's distress. Nyota shakes her head and takes a gulp of water.

"We can't prove anything," she says, leaning across the table and lowering her voice, "but she's probably the person who reported Spock to the board."

Gaila's fury is instantaneous and gratifying. Nyota reaches out her hand to stop her roommate from standing up.

"I'm not 100% sure," Nyota says. "But she did see me one morning in his apartment."

She says no more—indeed, she's never given Gaila any specific details about her relationship with Spock—though neither pretends, as they did for so long, that it doesn't exist. Instead they allude to it this way—obliquely, as if they don't need to say anything more direct.

Which, Nyota thinks, they don't. Gaila offers her support anyway.

She pulls back her hand as Andrea trills a laugh and picks up the cardboard cup of coffee Arun places on the counter in front of her. Taking a sip, she steps toward the back of the store.

When Andrea is halfway down the aisle, Nyota makes eye contact and is rewarded with a startled look on the other woman's face. For a second Andrea falters but then continues toward the cooler. Gaila is up and away to the front of the market before Nyota can stop her.

Bundling up her trash and Gaila's, she watches Andrea leaning over the cooler and has a guilty moment of wishing she could give her a shove.

_Time to leave._

Tossing the trash in the bin near the front door, she glances at Gaila who is deep in conversation with Arun. That in itself is surprising, but when she looks again, she sees her roommate draped across the counter, her uniform top clinging to her curves in a way that looks…unnatural. Gaila's face is slightly flushed, her red locks falling around her shoulders.

_What's she doing?_

"You might want to check," Gaila says huskily, and Arun swallows visibly and says, "You're sure?"

"Try me," Gaila says, and Arun nods.

While Nyota watches, Gaila straightens up as Arun rushes to the back of the store where Andrea is still looking over the selections in the cooler. When he begins shouting, Nyota jumps visibly.

"You!" he says, and Andrea turns slowly, a wrap in her hand. "Yes! You! Open your bag!"

"What?" Andrea says, and Nyota glances at Gaila.

"Shoplifter," Gaila says softly. "I thought he ought to know."

"You didn't," Nyota says, and Gaila shrugs.

"I didn't put that there!" Andrea says as Arun pulls some sort of small container—the kind processed meats come in—from her bag. "I never saw that before!"

"Let's go," Nyota says, and Gaila rushes after her through the door.

Once outside Gaila bursts into wails of laughter so hard that she has to stop and bend over to catch her breath. Nyota struggles not to join her.

"You really shouldn't have done that," she says, but she knows her words are hollow. Part of her is glad Andrea is the target of Arun's anger, misplaced though it might be. Let her talk her way out of that—or maybe get herself banned from the deli altogether.

She squirms a bit with the moral ambivalence of it all.

"Why not?" Gaila says, standing back up and pulling Nyota towards the sidewalk. A rush of ground cars keeps them from crossing the street right away, but in a moment they run toward the east gate, Gaila still chortling. "I can't help it if she's a thief."

"She's a stalker and a creep, but she isn't a thief," Nyota says, pulling her ID from her pocket and swiping open the gate. "You were slick, planting that on her like that."

Gaila stops so abruptly that Nyota almost tumbles into her.

"But I didn't!" she protests, and Nyota grins. _Okay, she'll play along for now._

"Right," she says. "Andrea the stalker just happens to steal a can of tuna worth less than a credit."

"Ny," Gaila says, her voice suddenly serious. "I swear on the dust of my ancestors that I didn't put anything in that woman's bag."

"And you didn't tell Arun about your suspicions, either," Nyota says. Something in Gaila's expression is so earnest that Nyota feels a wave of doubt starting to wash over her.

"I _did_ do that," Gaila says, "and I freely admit that I made use of my….what do you call them…. _charms_ , to be more convincing. But Ny, I didn't do anything else. You have to believe me."

And she does. Suddenly, unequivocally, she knows that Andrea Olson is really and truly a petty thief.

 _Ah._ Nyota takes a deep breath and replays the scene of Arun confronting her, this time enjoying it without reservation.

**A/N: I apologize! This chapter makes multiple references to "People Will Say," which I hope doesn't make this story line too confusing.**

**Spock is angry with his cousin Rachel because of what happened in Chapter 8 or PWS—he forgives her—eventually—but he recognizes her gift of rare honey as an attempt to get back in his favor before he's ready.**

**Samuel Cogley is from Chapters 12 – 14 of PWS. He represents Spock at his own fraternization hearing.**

**Andrea Olson appears in Chapter 9 of PWS. She gets her comeuppance (sort of) in this chapter because sometimes the universe really is just.**

**Rosh Hashanah is Jewish New Year. In 2257 it will fall on Thursday, September 10. Apples dipped in honey are served to symbolize the hope for a sweet new year. Natalie isn't privy to everything you know about Spock's family—so she doesn't make the connection between Rachel's gift of honey and Rosh Hashanah.**


	8. Down the Hatch

**Disclaimer: The usual suspects—something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. No money being made!**

"If you're gonna mope all night, I'm looking for another date."

Leonard McCoy is more irritated than usual. Even from a distance Chris Pike can see that the man McCoy is talking to is hunched over his drink, apparently indifferent to the doctor's threat to leave.

"Gentlemen," Chris says as he comes up behind them. To his surprise, the cadet at the bar is Jim Kirk. If Kirk's ever been morose in his life, Chris hasn't seen it. Overly enthusiastic is more his normal speed. Chris has seen him quietly thoughtful from time to time, but his optimism and good nature are usually infectious.

Not tonight.

"Captain," McCoy says, nodding his head and picking up his glass. He moves over so that Chris can have his seat at the crowded bar.

The bar runs the entire length of a large assembly room at the Academy, one usually reserved for convocations and school-wide seminars. Tonight, however, the lights have been dimmed, the tables pushed to the perimeter, and the floor in the center left free for dancing. Each year the Academy hosts one fall social gathering and another in the spring, and though attendance isn't mandatory, most of the professors and staff show up, at least long enough to make sure the dean spots them. Starfleet personnel usually make an appearance as well.

By unwritten tradition, the fall gathering is an opportunity for off-world students and those from far-flung Terran cultures to wear traditional native outfits. Some of the campus clubs organize their members with matching monogrammed T-shirts, and a few jokesters wear Halloween costumes. The atmosphere is lighthearted and unrestrained.

Which is another reason Chris Pike is puzzled by Jim Kirk tonight.

"See you later, Jim," McCoy says, nodding again at Chris before heading out onto the crowded dance floor, holding his drink before him like a beacon.

"Cadet Kirk," Chris says, lifting one finger to snag the bartender's attention. "Something on your mind?"

Kirk glances up from his beer bottle briefly and then looks down again. In the three years that he's been at the Academy, Kirk has distinguished himself in courses that require great physical strength and agility, such as survival strategies, and one of Chris' friends, the trainer for advanced hand-to-hand combat, recently hired Kirk as his assistant instructor.

But Kirk is no slouch academically either. Last semester he was singled out for honors in his tactical analysis class—something that doesn't surprise Chris. He's glad Kirk has risen to the challenges of the Academy, and proud, too—not just of the young man sitting here now, nursing a bottle of beer, but of himself for seeing the potential in that bruised and bloody young man on the floor in the bar in Iowa.

"Have you ever," Kirk says suddenly, darting a glance at the captain, "run into something you just can't beat? I mean, a real honest-to-god no-win scenario?"

"I assume you have some reason for asking," Chris parries. Kirk's question isn't really an appeal for Chris' story, anyway, but a way to start telling his own.

"It's just," Kirk says, cupping his hands around his beer bottle, "it's one thing to lose if you don't try hard enough or you aren't skilled, but…when no matter what you try, you _have_ to lose…well, that's unfair."

"The _Kobayashi Maru_ ," Chris says, suddenly understanding Kirk's mood. "When did you take it?"

"This morning," Kirk says, tipping up his beer bottle to his lips and emptying it. The passing bartender slides a glass of bourbon to Chris and picks up the beer bottle, waggling it, lifting his eyebrows in query.

Kirk nods at the bartender and turns to Chris.

"This morning. Second time. It's gotta be rigged."

"So what if it is?" Chris asks, and Kirk frowns. "Maybe you're missing the point of the test in the first place."

"The point of any test is to beat it," the cadet says.

"You sure about that?" Chris says, taking a sip of his bourbon. "Sometimes the point of a test is to reveal our character."

"How does _losing_ reveal character?"

"You aren't seriously asking me that, are you?"

"Captain," Kirk says, an edge of impatience in his voice, "I understand what you're saying, but what _I'm_ saying is that I want a chance to make sure that I've done my best, and right now I don't feel that. If I could take it again—"

"Then why don't you?"

Chris hears Kirk sigh as the bartender returns with a fresh bottle of beer.

"Admiral Barnett denied my request."

 _That's a surprise._ Chris knows the admiral well—indeed, he owes his assignment as captain of the _Enterprise_ to him. Usually Barnett's easygoing and accommodating.

"Because?" Chris asks, and Kirk shrugs sheepishly.

"He said I wasn't learning anything from retaking it. That I needed to reflect on what I was doing."

"Good advice," Chris says. He sees Kirk bristle slightly.

"Sir," Kirk says, "if I could try one more time—"

Chris sets down his glass and looks more closely at the young man beside him. Kirk's hair is ruffled, the shadow of a beard along his jaw. Despite the spotty lighting in the room, his eyes blaze an unnatural blue, as if he is lit from inside by a fire.

An image of him lying on the floor at the bar in Riverside flashes through Chris' mind.

"Wait a few months," Chris says, and he sees Kirk looking at him cautiously. "Give yourself time to do what the admiral suggested. Think about it. Reflect. Then maybe I'll ask the admiral to let you take another crack at it. Since you're so determined."

Kirk's face splits into a wide grin.

"So, when can I try again? _Sir_ ," he adds for comic effect, and Chris laughs. _You have to give the kid credit for trying._

"Okay," Chris says, pulling back his sleeve with an exaggerated motion and tipping his wrist to show his chronometer, "exactly three months from today, on my mark. 2258.42. February 11 by the old-style calendar. Does that satisfy you?"

"Thank you, sir," Kirk says, raising his beer bottle like someone making a toast. "You just made this party a lot more fun."

He stands up and heads into the crowd.

"What was that all about?" Natalie says, sidling up to Kirk's vacated chair. She's dressed in an actual party dress tonight, something pink and shiny. Her hair's pulled back, too, which makes her look oddly vulnerable, softer.

"He doesn't like no-win scenarios," Chris says. Frowning, Natalie turns away long enough to point to Chris' glass.

"What he's having," she says to the bartender when she catches his eye. "So, who does?"

"It's not a matter of liking them," Chris says, running his fingertip around the rim of his glass. "It's…learning to live with them."

It's dangerous territory, this—and he's instantly sorry that he's broached it. Even disguised in symbol it speaks too closely to what he thinks about all the time these days.

"That doesn't sound like you," Natalie says. Her arm is so close to his that he can feel her heat, can smell flowers or some odd spice that isn't usual. "Where's that old leap-before-you-look Captain Pike I know?"

She smiles as she says it but her voice is sad, and Chris says, "Just being realistic, Nat. Nobody lands on their feet all the time. The universe doesn't work that way."

The bartender wanders up then with her drink and she tells him thanks. For a minute they drink in silence, the only sound the music and the murmur of the dancers, and then Chris says, "You here alone?"

"Hardly," Natalie says. "There must be 500 people in here right now."

"You know what I mean, smart ass," Chris says, nudging her shoulder. "Eric here?"

"Nope," Natalie says slowly, "he had to fly to Boston. He won't be back 'til tomorrow."

"That's too bad," Chris says, finishing his bourbon. "There goes your dance schedule."

Natalie leans a fraction closer and the scent of flowers or spice wafts up again.

"What about you?"

The room is suddenly still—one of those awkward moments when the music and the talking unexpectedly cease, and then, like someone stepping back from a precipice, Chris takes a breath as the noise begins again.

"I don't dance," he says, letting his gaze linger over her eyes, her mouth. "You know that."

His words hang in the air and he's sorry again about freighting them with so much meaning. _Time to lighten things up._

Looking over her head he says, "But there's Commander Spock. I bet he could give you a turn on the dance floor."

Natalie looks over her shoulder quickly and then says, "You're making a joke, but I bet he dances like a ballroom champion. Actually," she says, grinning, "you might be surprised by the Commander. He has hidden depths."

"I'll take your word for it," Chris says, playing along. "Ah, but I see someone whose depths aren't so hidden."

He feels Natalie searching his face and he motions to the dance floor where a striking Orion woman in traditional costume moves sinuously next to a rapt cadet.

"I may have to change my no dancing policy," he says, and Natalie laughs.

They watch the Orion dancing—and the crowd obligingly parting to give her room—and then Chris watches Natalie instead. Her face is flushed with heat, her eyes bright with excitement. A tiny mole near her ear captures his attention and he is caught off guard when she turns suddenly toward him.

"What are you doing for the holidays?" she asks, still smiling. Any uneasiness she might have felt with him earlier seems gone.

"Oh, I don't know," he says. "I was thinking of using that time for dance lessons."

"Very funny," Natalie says. The music stops and the Orion woman bows to raucous applause. "You're coming to our house. Eric's cooking a turkey this year. Two people can't eat a whole turkey."

"We'll see," Chris says, giving her a smile. "I might have a date."

"You're lying."

"I'm not! Lots of women find me very interesting. Being captain of the flag ship has some social perks, you know."

He tries to laugh but is suddenly very tired. The bourbon, the late evening. He feels Natalie's hand on his arm.

"Chris," she says, and he takes a breath and waits.

A loud thud across the room—someone tipping over a chair, most likely—releases him from the peculiar limbo he has wandered into. Scattered laughter and then the music starts again.

"Tell you what," he says, standing, "why don't you tell Eric to save me some turkey. In the meantime?"

He holds out his hand and lifts one eyebrow.

"I thought you didn't dance."

"Just once, before I turn back into a pumpkin."

He says it lightly, carefully, as they make their way to the closest edge of the dance floor, like two ships hugging the shoreline, afraid to leave sight of the harbor.

X X X X X X X

The charges were dismissed, of course. Natalie never expected them not to be, but both she and Chris were relieved when Samuel Cogley gave them the official announcement.

"Someone apparently filed a complaint about your promotion," he said to Natalie over drinks at Davy Jones' Locker that evening. She felt Chris tense up beside her in the tiny battered booth where they sat shoulder to shoulder across from Cogley. "Oh, that's not unusual," Cogley hurried on. "Especially when so many of the crew have been reassigned. Someone feels slighted and starts talking, and before you know it, HQ is forced to check it out."

If she felt indignant, Chris was furious, particularly because he prided himself on his relationship with his shipmates. That someone had distrusted his judgment about Natalie was almost as galling as the embarrassment of being hauled before the lawyers taking the deposition.

"I doesn't matter," she said, trying to soothe him as he railed angrily.

"For what it's worth," Cogley chimed in, "she's right. You're the captain. She's your XO. It's a done deal. What do you care what anyone says?"

Still, as the _Tiberius_ came closer to being repaired and the replacement crew began showing up on Starbase 11, Natalie worried that Chris appeared too stern at times, or aloof, as if he was afraid to let down his guard around anyone else.

Later she blamed his unnatural reserve on what happened next.

Two weeks after the towlines were finally detached and the _Tiberius_ was underway from the shipyard, Natalie found herself one afternoon listening to a couple of new crew members in the mess hall. The conversation was innocuous enough—two people comparing notes about their experience aboard so far.

But as they talked, Natalie realized that they didn't know anyone outside their department. Even in the short time she had been on the ship before the accident, she could put a name to almost every face.

That wasn't true anymore.

"I never thought I'd say this," she told Chris later in his office, "but it's time to initiate the new crew. You know, that whole crossing the line thing. They aren't pulling together yet. Something like that might…help."

Setting aside the PADD he had been reading, Chris gave her a hard stare.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Natalie Jolsen? The same Natalie Jolsen who couldn't be bothered to come to her own crossing the line ceremony."

Natalie felt herself flush.

"I know," she said almost meekly. "But it's important. The new crew doesn't even know each other yet. This might be a way to—"

She let her words drift off. The ceremony was as much sexual shenanigans these days as anything else—all consensual, of course, and all politely ignored later.

 _Crossing the line_ , indeed.

"This ought to be interesting," Chris said, sitting back and flexing his arms behind his head. "Considering the first officer's task is to organize the wog mutiny—which you didn't attend."

Again Natalie squirmed.

"I, uh, was hoping you might help me with that."

"You were, were you?"

"Yes, sir."

She looked up then and caught Chris hastily extinguishing a smirk.

"I don't know," he said, mock serious, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes giving him away. "That might be some violation of a protocol. I'll have to check on that and get back to you."

Two days passed and Natalie began to think that Chris' reservations had been serious, that he was going to make her fumble her way through the ceremony alone, as a punishment of sorts.

Then the note announcing the mutineers' meeting—the traditional opening of the ceremony—landed in her box and she knew the game was on.

"We'll need lots of refreshments," Chris told her. "Check my private stores for that Argellian liqueur. I need to get rid of it before it goes bad. Have the deck crew move the furniture out of the ship's lounge so we can fit all 89 wogs in there for the meeting. And Jolsen?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get that grin off your face. I'm not doing this to save your ass. I'm doing this because it needs to be done."

"Got it. _Sir_."

Only two wogs didn't show up for the mutiny meeting in the ship's lounge, and both were on the sick list. Everyone else was there, an undercurrent of anticipation in the room, and Natalie felt chastened—again—when she thought of how odd her own refusal to participate must have seemed to Chris over a year ago. No wonder he had tracked her down and chewed her out.

_Live and learn._

The crowd fell silent when Chris stepped to the front of the room.

"The time has come," he said, "to leave behind your pollywog ways and assume your rightful place as experienced crew. To prove your worth, you must venture forth and associate with a shellback as you see fit—"

Here isolated snickers erupted from the crowd.

"Partaking of generous libations—"

Chris held up a decorative clear bottle filled with a fluorescent green fluid and the crowd cheered.

"And becoming worthy to be known as crew members of the _USS_ _Tiberius_!"

Cheers and applause—and Natalie felt her own heart racing. Why had she missed this before? How stupid!

The wogs headed out then—most grabbing a cup of something to drink before fanning out throughout the ship to find someone to share it with.

"Well done," Natalie said to Chris when the last crewman left. "Very inspirational."

Chris said nothing but walked to the table in the corner and poured two glasses full from the decanter he still carried. He set it down and picked up the glasses instead, handing one to Natalie.

"What is it?"

"Damned if I know," he said, taking a sniff and pausing. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he said, tossing the drink back with one swallow. Natalie watched him cautiously as he coughed once, twice, and nodded.

"It's good," he croaked, and Natalie took a timid sip. It was, in fact, very good—light and fruity and not at all what she had imagined.

 _If only all surprises were that pleasant._ She finished her glass and held it out for a refill.

And that was the last truly clear memory she had of that night—unless it was of a short time later, when she had her third glass of the alien alcohol.

She vaguely remembered being very sleepy very quickly and begging off Chris' offer of a late meal. Instead, she went back to her quarters with every intention of falling into her bunk until her shift the next day, only to find interlopers there—crewmates clearly enjoying the injunction to seek each other out. She stood for a moment in the doorway, confused, hearing the unmistakable sounds of _amor_ coming from the darkened room.

She must have wandered around for a time, though the next thing she recalled was sitting in the corridor near Chris' quarters, her back against the wall, her knees tucked up, her chin resting on her folded arms. She may have dozed for awhile.

"Get up," she heard Chris say. A warm pressure on her wrist—someone tugging her to her feet, and then an arm slipped around her back, keeping her from falling forward. "What are you doing here?"

Dimly she was aware that she was inside his quarters, that he was leaning her back onto his bunk.

"Someone's in my cabin," she said, waving her arm in the air. "I guess they thought it was just a closet or something."

_Was someone giggling?_

"You know, because of all the medical supplies stored there. I really need to find better quarters. It doesn't seem fair, having to live in a closet—"

Her eyes became too heavy to keep open. Cool air on her feet—why was someone taking off her boots?—and then she began to shiver uncontrollably.

"Help me!" she called out, afraid she was going to plunge off the narrow bunk. An invisible hand grabbed her and held her steady, and then she felt herself being rolled to the side and someone wrapped something warm along her back and over her arms. In a few minutes the shivering stopped and she knew she was falling asleep.

For months afterwards she spent many hours thinking about the dream that followed. How in it she woke up, knowing she was in Chris' room, with Chris in his bed—not _Captain Pike_ , but _Chris_ , the way she referred to him in her own imaginings—and how her fingers were slipping the buttons of his uniform loose, pulling away the useless fabric. How she placed her hand on his chest to stop him from reaching for her—how she slid out of her own clothes and let them fall to the floor, and then she lowered herself into the bunk and reached her hands to the side of his face, pulling him towards her, effortlessly, like tugging the rope of a rowboat and watching it slide across a pond.

Once when she was a teenager she had gone surfing at night with a boy she met on the island where her family was vacationing. She was sharing a room with her youngest sister and had waited impatiently for her to fall asleep before she unlatched the window and climbed out.

The moon was only a sliver—not enough to offer helpful light—but the boy was an experienced islander and Natalie wasn't afraid. As she paddled her board over the breakers and turned to face the shore, she felt the dark current of the ocean lifting her slowly, slowly, with pent up power and a hint of danger. Over her shoulder she saw a whitecap beginning to slide into the hollow rushing before it.

Before she could get to her feet, the wave toppled behind her and the force knocked her off her knees. For one frantic moment she thought she would fall but she grabbed the sides of the board and held on, the wall of water shooting her forward toward the shore, rocked and breathless.

In the dream she felt the same fright and exhilaration, the same sense of impending disaster. Beneath her the waves pressed her down and lifted her up in equal measure, her cheek tight against the board slick with salt, until she felt sand under her toes and she could breathe again.

Or not the waves and the beach and the board—but here in Chris' bed, running her hand over his arm afterward, letting herself drift back out to sea.

She remembered more, too—and tried not to—because even the memory of the dream was so arousing that it pulled her from whatever she was doing. It was as if she had crossed some equator that she couldn't quite see, couldn't quite define.

Only once did she allude to it, afraid of what Chris would say.

"That night," she said, "when we…when you found me…."

"When you woke up in my bed?"

"Did we…I mean, I can't remember—"

"No wonder," Chris said, looking at something in the distance, "you were flat on your ass drunk."

"But later," Natalie said, and Chris shifted and looked at her closely. "When I wasn't so…drunk."

"I had been drinking, too, if you can recall that," he said.

"So, nothing happened?" she said, darting a glance at him.

"You fell asleep."

"And…that's all?"

"I believe some snoring was involved."

"Be serious!"

"I am. You reminded me of an asthmatic horse I had once. Finally had to put her down."

His words relieved her—and saddened her, too, though she put that thought away, with the dream.

For almost a year. And then a random signal from a long-dead planet changed everything.

X X X X X X X X

If he sits exactly 1.24 meters from the corner nearest to the front door, Spock can just make out Nyota's words, even though she is across the crowded room. The refraction of the sound waves against the corner behind him causes some minor distortion, but that is immaterial. He can still hear her.

Many of the people attending the fall gathering are congregating on the dance floor, but enough are sitting in chairs pulled to the side along the wall that he attracts no undue attention—at least not for sitting here instead of mingling among the crowd.

Nyota and her roommate, on the other hand, seem to be attracting a great deal of attention. Decked in native dress, they are more colorfully—even, Spock assumes, _festively_ —dressed than the majority of the other cadets. In Cadet Farlijah-Endef's case, dressed _less_ than the other cadets.

Nyota's outfit, by contrast, covers her from neck to toe—far more modest attire than her cadet uniform. In some ways the richly embroidered gown reminds Spock of the heavy caftans Vulcan women wear, protection against the heat and the sun.

Two desert peoples developing similar solutions to an environmental challenge. _Fascinating._

Perhaps some unconscious similarity to the _couture_ he grew up with is why he finds Nyota particularly appealing tonight, why his attention keeps drifting in her direction.

That must be the explanation.

"Ladies!"

A loud male voice pierces the ordinary hubbub. _Cadet Kirk, the young man Captain Pike has been mentoring._ Spock has never taught him—indeed, has not spoken to him personally—though one day as he and the captain rode a hover bus from headquarters to the transit station, Pike pointed him out through the window.

"George Kirk's son," he said, nodding toward the young man crossing the commons. "Lots of promise, if he doesn't self destruct."

At the time Spock had thought nothing more about it. He knew about George Kirk, of course, and the destruction of the _Kelvin_. That was one of the reasons ships in the past two decades went from being large multi-generational ships to smaller ones requiring crew to leave their families behind.

At the moment, George Kirk's son drapes his arms over the shoulders of Nyota and Cadet Farlijah-Endef.

Spock sits up to ease the sudden jolt in his side.

"Look who's here," Nyota says, stepping back so that Kirk's arm falls away. "I thought you'd be nursing your wounded ego."

"I'm down," Kirk says, "but not out."

Cadet Farlijah-Endef trills a laugh, and after a moment, Nyota laughs, too.

The music swells and Spock can't hear any response Kirk makes. He starts to rise from his seat but someone adjusts the sound to a more reasonable decibel.

"In fact, Sally," Kirk says, leaning toward Nyota, "I would never miss a chance to dance with you, no matter what kind of day I've had."

"Thank you," she says, putting her hand out and pushing on his chest, "but no."

The temperature in the room climbs suddenly—undoubtedly a failure in the main air handler, Spock thinks. Briefly he considers removing his jacket, but no one else seems affected by the heat. _Odd._

"In that case," Kirk says, "I have bad news. You haven't paid your dues to the xenolinguistics club this semester. One dance and I won't report it—"

"That's blackmail, mister," Nyota says, and Spock rises to his feet. Her voice, however, doesn't indicate distress but amusement. He sits back down, slowly. "How you ever got to be the treasurer—"

"My impressive mathematical ability," Kirk says, grinning first at Nyota and then at her roommate. "And my charm. Which for some reason you seem immune to."

"That's the first truthful thing you've said all night," Nyota says. "Gaila? You coming?"

"Actually, Gaila," Kirk says, for the first time giving his full attention to the Orion, "you're the one I came all this way to see. I need your help with something."

"Gaila," Nyota says, her voice a mixture of command and inquiry. Her facility with language makes her tonal expression more acute than anyone Spock knows.

"Oh, Ny," her roommate says, "I'll be along in a little while. Do you mind?"

As he watches, Nyota frowns. She says nothing, which in humans generally signals agreement. Her facial expression, however, suggests something else.

"Commander?"

He hears a voice at his ear and he turns his head to catch a glimpse of Captain Pike's attaché bending forward.

"Are you okay?"

"Of course," he says, losing sight of Nyota as a group of cadets walks by.

"You sure? You look…unsettled."

"I assure you," he says, trying to rein in the flash of impatience he feels, "that I am fine."

"Do you need anything? Some more cider, perhaps?"

From the corner of his eye he sees her pointing to the half empty glass cup in his hand containing a form of mildly fermented apple juice. Bland and almost tasteless, it had been the only other choice besides hot chocolate at the refreshment table.

In retrospect, he should have chosen an alcoholic beverage from the bar at the back of the room.

"Please," he says, "do not concern yourself."

Scanning the crowd for another glimpse of Nyota, he doesn't notice when Captain Pike's attaché leaves.

Now that Nyota has wandered out of sight, his place in the corner is a tactical disadvantage. He stands quickly and for a moment experiences vertigo so severe that he puts his hand out and steadies himself with the back of a chair. The heat and now this lack of balance. _An illness?_ He doesn't feel ill—just slightly out of kilter.

Taking a deep breath, he waits until he is sure he can step forward without his knees buckling beneath him.

He makes his way to one end of the bar and looks at the people sitting along its length. Then he moves to the other side of the room, looking closely at the dancers as they ease out of his way.

Still he doesn't see her.

And then a flash of dark green fabric catches his eye—Nyota exiting the front door. Unless he hurries he will lose sight of her again. Looking around, he considers how to proceed through the press of people standing closely together along the perimeter of the room. Normally he makes his way through a crowd with his arms tucked close to his side, his palms turned away from any accidental physical contact. If he waits to do that now—

Lifting his right hand, he steels himself and touches the shoulder of a tall cadet blocking his way. The young man looks back and Spock feels a flash of alarm snap through his fingertips. The cadet steps away, tugging at the arm of a woman near him.

He makes his way forward—a touch here, a tap there—each time startled and distressed by the emotions he is unwillingly privy to.

Whatever is making him feel hot and unsettled has obviously affected his mental shields as well. A virus? Perhaps a relapse of the Andorian flu?

If this continues he may have to visit the infirmary.

Finally he's at the door, a blast of cool air when he goes outside. For a minute he allows himself to stand and enjoy the night mist on his face, something he usually finds disagreeable.

Then the door opens again and he is in the way of a couple leaving. Reluctantly he makes himself move forward.

In the distance he hears the rush of hover cars and other traffic near the west gate. Nyota would have no reason to head in that direction. Her dorm is in a cluster of student housing on the north end of the campus, directly ahead on the other side of the commons.

The odds are high that even now she is walking on one of the paved pathways—most likely this one. Scanning ahead, he sees several silhouettes and he takes a breath and moves as quickly as he can without actually breaking into a run.

He has to see her. To touch her. To reassure himself that she is well.

Or rather, that she is _his_.

Even as he thinks this he realizes how inappropriate it is, how uncharacteristic of him, how offended she would be—will be—if he reveals it to her. Clearly he's not himself. The wise course of action would be to turn around and head straight to his apartment to meditate.

But he doesn't. He can't.

The toe of his boot catches on something and he stumbles, catching himself before he falls. He looks up in time to see Nyota on the path turning at the noise, her face lit with alarm.

"Spock!"

Instantly he is ashamed at how the worry in her voice satisfies him.

Suddenly she is before him. "Are you okay?"

"I…need—" he begins, and then he really does feel his knees begin to give way. He sways forward and she braces herself, grabbing his arms, to keep them both from tumbling over.

Now that they are this close, the undercurrent of panic that began when Cadet Kirk draped his arm over her shoulder begins to abate. The hammering in his side begins to slow.

"Nyota, I—" he says, reaching up and stroking her cheek. Instantly he feels her alarm and he knows he should release her but he can't. Instead he lets his left arm slip around her, the slinky feel of the dark green fabric cool to his touch.

"Someone will see!"

The truth of that statement makes him pause.

"You're drunk," she says.

And he knows it's true. He lets go of her immediately.

Footsteps announce a fellow traveler on the pathway and Nyota says, "Come on. Let's go."

He doesn't ask where but follows her, keeping a few paces behind, until he finds himself in the covered bus stop outside the west gate, breathing heavily, his back against the uncomfortable metal seat.

As much as he wanted to see her earlier, now he wants her to go away. That she has already seen his lack of control is deeply shaming. He tries to tell her so.

"I'm not leaving you like this," she says, peering closely in his face. "I'm taking you home."

"Not necessary," he says, but she slips her fingers in his and warmth flushes through him, making a lie of his words.

"You drank that hot chocolate, didn't you?"

The actual words sound more accusatory than they are. His face grows hot.

"I did not," he says, and Nyota puts her hands on his cheeks and leans closer.

"You smell like cinnamon."

And then he knows. The cider. If he had known it contained cinnamon he would not have ingested it. Like cacao, it works on Vulcans the way alcohol does on humans, lowering their inhibitions—making them, in every sense of the word, drunk.

Through her hands he feels her concern and he shows her an image of himself at the fall gathering, cup in hand.

 _Ah_ , she thinks, and then he shows her his fantasy, his wish—of her leaning closer, brushing his lips with hers, and she laughs softly and complies.

"That's all," she says aloud, pulling back, but not before he senses her own arousal beginning.

The bus stop at this time of the night is rarely crowded. Tonight is no exception. Spock looks around and sees empty sidewalks in either direction.

_He could take her here, now, if she wanted._

"Nyota," he says, reaching for her. She slips her hands in his before he can circle them around her waist.

"Spock," she says quietly. "This isn't _you_. You aren't thinking clearly. You're being…irrational."

She tries to hide it but he can tell she finds him repulsive, distasteful.

He doesn't blame her.

If she ever saw him truly irrational—not just temporarily sloshed on chocolate or cinnamon, but in the throes of _pon farr_ —

The hammering in his side is so intense that for a moment he wonders if he has inherited his father's heart malfunction.

"Here comes the bus," Nyota says, tugging his arm, and he says, "I can make it home."

"I'm not sure you can," she says.

 _I'll be discreet,_ she thinks. He sees her considering her outfit—the long green fabric an effective disguise of sorts.

The only person on the automatic hover bus gets off at the stop so they have the bus to themselves on the short loop around the campus to the faculty housing. The strip lighting in the floor and along the ceiling of the bus casts a warm glow that makes the fibers in Nyota's long gown shimmer. The effect is aesthetically pleasing and Spock reaches out and runs his hand along the sleeve.

"We're almost there," Nyota says. An unnecessary comment—one meant to reassure him, perhaps? He glances down at the way the light reflects across the snug bodice of the dress, around the fabric enclosing her hips and thighs. Somehow having her clothed this way—with no skin showing—skin he knows well by sight and smell and touch and taste—is so arousing that he hears himself beginning to pant.

At his apartment she takes his key card from him when he tries unsuccessfully to swipe it across the reader.

"Here," she says, pushing open the door to the building. He sees her peering down the hall, cautious, before stepping quickly to his apartment door and keying it open as well.

Once inside he reaches for her again and is overcome with another wave of vertigo.

"Whoa!" she says, giving him a gentle shove toward the hall.

 _Yes, the bedroom_.

"Lie down," she commands and he stretches out across the duvet on his bed. Against his will his eyes close—the dizziness—and he feels her weight settle as she sits on the side of the bed. "You're burning up," she says, stroking his face, her fingers so chilly that he shivers. "Are you sure you aren't sick?"

But he's suddenly too tired to answer. Here he is in the refuge of his apartment, in his bed, aroused and hypersensitive to her touch—and he's falling asleep.

Drunk, indeed.

His dreams are chaotic, a pastiche of Cadet Kirk and Captain Pike and Natalie Jolsen giving him odd looks, and Nyota, flitting in the background, elusive as he pursues her. He wakes up with a start, drenched, tangled in the duvet.

But no longer under the influence. His heartbeat is back to normal. His head is clear.

Sitting up, he listens to the night sounds—a distant door shutting, the rattle of plumbing, a faint whir of a flitter overhead.

And there, underneath it all, her gentle breaths—so regular and slow that she has to be asleep.

Stripping off his soaking t-shirt, Spock pads down the hall to the living area and stands for a moment watching Nyota curled on the couch, still in her long gown, her head pillowed awkwardly on her arm.

Should he wake her?

0346—the middle of the sleep cycle for most humans. One reason to let her slumber on—but also a good time for her to leave unobserved.

As he watches her, her breathing shifts, becoming progressively more shallow, and she opens her eyes and moves her arm.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Two minutes and 37 seconds," he says promptly, and as he knows she will, she laughs.

"How are you feeling?"

"I am myself again."

"Prove it," she says, lifting her arms, and he takes her hands and pulls her to her feet. In her touch he feels her relief—and something else…a playfulness that often accompanies their lovemaking.

His own breathing speeds up.

"What sort of evidence do you require?" he asks as she lets go of his hands and slides her arms around his neck.

"Let me see," she says, tilting her head back. "That may take some thought. Perhaps I should leave and return later—after I've had time to consider."

_A game, and one he can play as well._

"If you wish," he says, keeping his expression blank. "It is not, after all, the optimal time to set any performance benchmarks."

He feels her straighten; her arms still their motion and she frowns.

"You're serious? You're too…tired?"

"On the contrary," he says. "I feel more rested than usual. You, on the other hand, would normally be asleep at this time. I question your ability to judge my… _performance_ …with sufficient objectivity."

In the low light of the living area he sees her eyes narrow.

"Then perhaps we need to redefine what we are doing here."

He feels a flicker of uneasiness; her words seem to be straying into something more serious than the bantering he had intended.

"Explain," he says, and to his relief she flashes her teeth and loops her arms more tightly around his neck.

"Here we have a perfect opportunity," she says, leaning forward and breathing into his ear, "to test a variable. If you are certain that you are _yourself_ again—"

She nips his ear and his eyes close of their own accord.

"-then we can see if my _perception_ of your performance is affected by how much sleep I've had—or in this case, not had."

She pulls back slightly and he opens his eyes.

"Unless," she says, meeting his gaze, "that doesn't suit your standard of scientific inquiry."

Pausing a moment, he gives in to the pleasure of noticing the refraction of light in the individual strands of her hair.

"Perhaps," he says, lowering his face to hers and lifting his right hand to her cheek, "we can gather sufficient data through repeated trials."

"You mean, doing the experiment more than once?"

Her hands slide along the side of his face and down his chest. He halts his breathing for a moment, the better to focus.

"Affirmative."

"It's already late," she says, tucking her arms around his waist. "I suggest we get started."

And then they leave words behind, impatient with the stumbling blocks of sound and sense, and give in to the far older, far more satisfying, poetry of touch.


	9. Terra Incognita

**Disclaimer: Not my characters; just my mischief.**

"Anybody home?"

Chris sticks his head inside the door and looks around. The living room is a shambles of wrapping paper and boxes thrown about in apparent haste, some on the floor, others heaped on the sofa.

"Can I come in?" he calls, walking forward and shutting the door behind him. In the distance he hears a soft thump—a door closing, someone unsettling a chair. He can't tell.

Then the steady tattoo of footsteps, muffled slightly by carpet, and Natalie is suddenly at the top of the stairs. Her face is in shadow but Chris can see her smile.

"When did you get here?"

"I've been yelling forever," he says, shrugging and tucking his hands into his pockets. A nervous gesture—he knows that—but he does it anyway. "I was getting ready to leave."

"You were not," Natalie says, reaching the bottom of the stairs. "You're a terrible liar."

"One of my many character flaws," Chris says. He pulls his right hand out and waves it around the room. "What's up with this? I thought you were a neat freak."

Natalie laughs and sweeps forward, gathering up the paper and boxes from the sofa and motioning for Chris to sit.

"I _am_ a neat freak," she says. "This is Eric's mess."

"Hmm," Chris says, sitting. "Where is he?"

"At the store. We ran out of butter."

Natalie deposits the armload of boxes on the sideboard and returns to sit at the other end of the sofa. She's wearing jeans and a loose shirt—clothes far more casual than she usually wears. The effect is disconcerting, as if he is seeing something private. He clears his throat.

"Thirsty?" she says, and he shakes his head.

"Not really," he says, glancing at her. He can see her poised on the edge of the sofa, ready to hop up and fetch him a bourbon, a scotch. Before he came he decided he wouldn't drink today. No use taking a chance on getting loose-lipped, not now, not when things are starting to be tolerable.

"You sure?"

Her voice betrays more skepticism than surprise. He looks her in the eye and nods.

"Yep," he says, and she says, " _Yep_ you _want_ a drink or _yep_ you're sure you _don't_ want a drink?"

"Goddam it, Natalie," he says, leaning away and crossing his arms. "Stop making everything so _hard_."

From the corner of his eye he sees her flinch and he's instantly sorry. He tells her so.

"I just meant," he says slowly, "that I'm _okay_. I don't need anything."

It's the truth, or a version of it.

What's wrong with him these days that every conversation is layered with _double entendres_? He's never been one for using symbol to convey meaning, for speaking in metaphors. _Say what you mean and mean what you say_ —that's been his motto.

It's always been a good one. Until now.

Looking around the room, he lets his gaze end up on her, on the way springs of her hair have come untucked from behind her ears. As if she feels his scrutiny, she slips her hand to her face and neatens her bob.

"Eric should be back soon," she says, looking over Chris' head toward the door. He follows her movement and then turns back to her.

"This is probably a bad idea."

"He won't be gone long," Natalie protests, and Chris hurries to add, "I mean, it looks like I caught you…guys…off guard."

At that Natalie gives a short laugh.

"No, don't be silly," she says. "You know Eric. He always has several things going at once. He put the turkey on and then decided he needed to wrap a few gifts."

She folds her hands on her lap and for a few moments the only sound in the room is the anachronistic ticking of an antique clock on the mantel over the stone fireplace. Chris clears his throat again and Natalie says, "Sure you don't want something to drink? Tea, maybe?"

He shakes his head again and searches for something to say in the awkward silence. How odd, he thinks, that when they are on duty together—indeed, when they are at headquarters together—they slip easily into conversations ranging far and wide. Now, however—

"How's your sister?" he asks abruptly, and Natalie purses her lips.

"Not good," she says. "That's why Eric's wrapping these gifts. We're going to see her tomorrow."

Chris has never asked for the details but knows that Natalie's sister suffered a recent miscarriage. He feels a wave of guilt for not sending her a note, for not acknowledging a loss Natalie says has shaken her in more ways than one.

As Natalie speaks, he conjures up an image of Susannah the first time he saw her, on the public dock at Starbase 11, while the _Tiberius_ was undergoing repairs after striking the gravitic mine.

"We're just so glad you are _alive_!" she said, rushing into Natalie's arms, voicing the reason so many family members of crew personnel had traveled by spaceliner to the remote starbase. She couldn't have been more than 16 or 17 at the time, a bouncy teenager who spent the week being ushered out of restricted areas by security officers.

"Can't you keep your sister under control?" Chris had asked the third time Susannah had to be vouched for, and Natalie had shrugged.

"You know how it is," she said. "Younger sibs don't always listen."

"Maybe not to you," Chris retorted, "but you don't see my brother getting into trouble."

"He's an adult!" Natalie protested. "Susannah's still a kid!"

"I was on my own when I was her age," Chris said, and Natalie raised one eyebrow. He was exaggerating, but not by much. After the fire that killed his parents, he had deferred his acceptance into Starfleet and had taken a job making deliveries for a parcel service. It hadn't been all bad—he could set his own hours and flying the delivery flitter as fast as he liked through the remote California mountains near his parents' ranch had been a rush.

But he had struggled not to show his brother how much he resented it—resented _him_ —for the sacrifice Chris was making by delaying his entry into the Academy. The dinners he cobbled together for the two of them were silent. When they met on the stairs or passed each other in the hall, they nodded and went about their business like indifferent roommates.

So Chris was surprised when his brother showed up in the wave of family members who came to Starbase 11 to check on the survivors. Surprised, and touched.

_Family matters._

"Tell her I said hello," Chris says, and Natalie starts to say something but is stopped by a jangling at the door.

"He's here!"

With a bound, Natalie leaps up and is across the room as Eric opens the door. Not as tall as Chris but leaner, Eric smiles first at Natalie and then at Chris, who stands up and holds out his hand. Eric laughs softly as he grasps Chris' hand and then he holds out a small paper bag to Natalie.

"The butter," he says. It is a simple declaration, but to Chris it sounds both intimate and triumphant, as if he has returned from a mythical quest. Chris averts his eyes as Natalie takes the bag and rewards Eric with a kiss on the cheek.

"Back in a minute," she says, moving quickly to the kitchen. She calls over her shoulder, "Eric, get him something to drink."

"Do you—" Eric begins, and Chris holds up his hand.

"Nothing for me," he says. "I was just telling Natalie that I ought to get going."

"Before dinner?"

Chris hazards a glance at Eric and sees him frowning. _Because Chris is here, or because he is leaving?_ It doesn't matter. He's so uncomfortable that he doesn't care.

"Yeah, listen. Tell Nat I had to run. That something came up at HQ. I'll see her later."

He meets Eric's gaze briefly—enough to know that Eric sees through the sham. Bobbing his head once, he turns and opens the front door. As he swivels to close it behind him he catches a glimpse of Eric standing in the center of the room, the frown still on his face, his right hand lifted, palm up, as if he is going to beckon to Chris to stay.

But he can't stay. He was stupid to even try.

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets against the chill, Chris makes his way down the walkway to where he has parked his personal flitter. He tries not to think of so many things—of what is probably unfolding behind him inside the house, Natalie returning from the kitchen, stunned and stung and looking as she does when she's hurt, flushed and stiff.

And Eric stepping up to her and sliding his arms around her.

And later, the smell of the turkey wafting from the oven, potatoes peeled and mashed and piled into a bowl, the stick of butter unwrapped and set on a small white porcelain dish.

A life he has not chosen and she has. Decisions made. Journeys started.

Secrets kept.

Yes, secrets, he thinks, remembering her fingers on the buttons of his shirt, her brow sweaty, almost fevered, as she lowered herself into his bunk and lifted her hand to his face.

Her question much later— _did we?_ —and what he said.

Or didn't say.

Continues not to say. Will not say.

When he slides into the flitter and starts the ignition he looks in the mirror quickly, but no one has come out of the house or down the walkway.

He shouldn't have left. Natalie will be upset, of course, and Eric, too. Somehow he'll make it up to them. Make it like nothing ever happened, like there are no secrets to keep.

X X X X X X X X

"You got anything for insomnia?"

Natalie didn't wait for an answer but lowered herself into a chair just inside the door of sickbay. Both Sarah April and her new assistant, Stephen Puri, looked up in unison.

"You look pale," Dr. April said, moving toward her. "What else is going on?"

If anyone looked pale it was Dr. April, Natalie thought. Since her husband's death she'd lost so much weight that she was haggard. She was as neat and dignified as ever, but her shoulders sagged slightly and there was a ghost of sadness in her features. She insisted on finishing her tour of duty—though Starfleet offered her the option of rotating off the _Tiberius_.

"Nothing that I know of," Natalie said, and Dr. Puri piped up from across the room.

"You're the fifth person this morning complaining of insomnia. Something must be going on."

For the first time since the _Tiberius_ left Starbase 11 after repairs, Natalie took the time to look closely at Stephen Puri. Tall and dark and classically handsome, he spoke with a tiny lilt in his voice that suggested he had been raised on the Indian subcontinent. In two months he would head up sickbay when Dr. April's tour was over.

The end of Dr. April's tour coincided with her own re-enlistment deadline, and _that_ , Natalie knew, was one reason for her insomnia. She had left a routine job planetside for what had turned out to be a routine job punctuated with moments of terror in space. Exciting, yes. Stimulating, certainly.

But was it what she wanted for another three years?

And then there was the problem of the dreams.

She hadn't had them for months, but now, while the _Tiberius_ was in a parking orbit around a seemingly dead planet, they'd started again, shattering her sleep, making her uneasy during her waking hours.

She'd told no one about them, not just because she scoffed at attributing too much to dreams, but because they all involved her relationship with Chris.

 _Captain Pike_ , she corrected herself. She had to stop thinking of him in more familiar terms.

"It could be some kind of space sickness," Dr. April said, waving her medical scanner over Natalie. "Something in this part of space we're investigating. It wouldn't be unheard of."

"I'll be glad when we leave," Natalie said, her voice sounding oddly vehement even to her. Dr. April paused and shot her a glance.

"Because?"

Instantly Natalie was sorry she had spoken. Almost a week ago the communications officer of the _Tiberius_ had alerted Captain Pike that she had picked up an unidentified hailing signal. It appeared to originate from DL109, a long-dead planet already catalogued by earlier ships.

However, the signal degraded before it could be sourced and Chris— _Captain Pike_ —had kept the ship nearby to see if it recurred.

"If it _did_ come from the planet," he told Natalie, "I want to be the one to find out."

"Why so competitive?" Natalie teased, but Chris had simply glared at her and gotten a second cup of coffee.

His foul mood that day had continued—and indeed, if she was honest, the rest of the crew was cranky as well. Searching for a needle in a haystack wasn't fun—or fulfilling. After four fruitless days, Natalie had suggested that they move on.

"It could have been a random signal from a passing freighter," she said, though both she and Chris knew that wasn't likely.

"We won't know," he said, frowning, "unless we stay here long enough to find out."

When his heels were dug in this way, nothing could move Chris. Natalie stopped trying.

"This…signal…we're tracking down is playing hard to get," Natalie said to Dr. April. "It's starting to get on _my—_ on _everyone's_ —nerves."

Dr. Puri chuckled softly. Natalie gave him a glare.

"One of the hazards of this job," Dr. April said, taking Natalie's wrist in her hand. "One of the things I won't miss."

At this Natalie was surprised. She had assumed that Dr. April would take a post on another ship.

"You're going to work on Earth?"

"I'm not going to work at all. Time for me to retire."

Letting go of Natalie's wrist, Dr. April pulled out a small PADD from her pocket and tapped on it.

"Your blood pressure's fine," she said, "and your heart's beating like it should. But you can't get to sleep?"

Squirming, Natalie considered how much to tell the doctor. As if he sensed her uneasiness, Dr. Puri excused himself, saying he had to check something in the lab.

Natalie sent him another look, this time of gratitude.

"No," she hedged, "I get to sleep okay. It's just that these _dreams_ keep waking me up."

"Dreams?"

"Yeah, the same ones, over and over. They're so real, like I'm really there."

Squinting, Dr. April said, "So these nightmares—"

"No," Natalie interrupted. "They're not…nightmares. Some of them are just a repeat of things that happened earlier in the day—you know, conversations with people, meals in the mess hall."

"But they wake you up?"

Again Natalie squirmed.

"Some of them do. Some of the more…intimate…ones."

From the corner of her eye, Natalie saw a smile flutter across Dr. April's expression.

"They're very disturbing, even if they aren't nightmares," Natalie said, a note of defensiveness in her voice.

"I'm sure," Dr. April said, her face serious again. "You know, now that you mention it, I think I've had more dreams lately, too. Dreams about Robert, mostly, but they don't wake me up. They make me feel…happier, like I've had a chance to be with him again."

"I'm sorry," Natalie said, watching Dr. April's vision grow cloudy. "I didn't mean to upset you—"

"That's the nature of dreams, isn't it? Sometimes they show us what we've been doing, and sometimes they show us what we wish we were doing."

And sometimes, Natalie thought, they showed us what we weren't sure we'd done. Her dream, the one where she was in bed with Chris, in his cabin—each time the same, as if it was a memory and not a creation.

Or maybe Dr. April was right, that the dream was what she wished she could do. That was a disturbing thought as well. Chris was her commanding officer—her friend, her drinking buddy. What he wanted was clear. _To be the captain of his own ship. To lead a group of people through uncharted territory, making significant discoveries, testing the waters, looking for unknown equators to cross._

What she wanted was not so clear.

Sometimes when they sat across from each other in Chris' office after duty, sipping a drink, she thought she saw something in his expression, heard something in his tone, that meant he was questioning his resolve, was, in fact, thinking of a different future altogether.

A future that could include her as something other than his XO.

But the moment always passed unremarked on, and now here she was, sleepless, uncertain which direction she should go.

"I can give you something," Dr. April said, "to help you sleep. Or you can increase your exercise regimen—that often improves sleep patterns. Or," Dr. April added, "you can stop worrying about it and just enjoy your dreams."

Something in Dr. April's tone made Natalie pause. Although on one level the erotic dreams about Chris were pleasurable, they were upsetting, too—so realistic in detail that they left her gasping when she woke. Seeing him later, in her waking life, she felt uneasy around him in a way that was new, as if she were hiding some secret from him.

Working became a chore. Socializing became something she tried to avoid.

"Like I said," she told the doctor who handed her a small container of pills, "I'll be glad when we leave here."

Standing up, Natalie continued.

"I'm sorry you're leaving the ship. But I guess I understand why."

Dr. April sighed and looked down.

"Yes, I was lucky all those years to be able to serve with Robert. Without him—well, it's not the _ship_ I was in love with, after all. I'll be okay," she said, looking up. "I have two granddaughters I'm looking forward to spending time with. It's good to have family at a time like this."

The rest of the evening Dr. April's expression kept coming back to Natalie—wistful but determinedly cheerful, as if being with her granddaughters was adequate compensation for the life she was giving up.

 _Perhaps it was._ Natalie began to mull over the idea.

Two days later Chris finally called off the search for the errant signal and the _Tiberius_ moved on to chart a nebula near the Mutara Sector. The dreams stopped at once.

The uneasiness Natalie had begun to feel around Chris did not. Was it her imagination, or was he as tentative with her as she felt around him? More than once she looked up from something—a computer console, a meal tray—and caught him staring at her, a frown creasing his brow. Their late night talks over bourbon in Chris' cabin slowed and then stopped.

When she told him that she had taken a ground assignment he didn't seem disappointed or even all that surprised.

"Here's my brother's comm number," he said. "He recently moved to San Francisco, too."

If she was ambivalent about leaving the _Tiberius_ , about leaving _Chris_ , her new assignment as the head of the procurement office at headquarters kept her too busy to think about it. For the first six months she struggled to keep her head up, to learn the job and her staff. The second six months she began to introduce changes in her department—not all of them easy to implement—and before she knew it her assistant was handing her a card celebrating a year on the job.

During that year she heard from Chris only once—a quick call late one night when the _Tiberius_ was in Spacedock. When she answered her comm and heard his voice, she felt both glad to hear from him and angry that he hadn't called earlier. The ship had been docked for over a week.

He had been drinking, too, she was sure of it. Not that he was drunk or even noticeably slurry, but his affect was off, as if he couldn't quite articulate what he was trying to say. When they hung up, she was relieved.

Months after that when the _Tiberius_ pulled into Spacedock for good to be decommissioned, she saw him at last. From the end of the transport station she could make out his lanky figure, duffel in hand, walking from the shuttle that had ferried him to Earth. She stood motionless and watched him making his way forward, his eyes scanning the crowd. When he saw her, he blinked and smiled and shifted his duffel to his other hand.

"Jolsen!" he said, grinning, and she impulsively threw her arms around his neck.

Whatever awkwardness had been between them was gone.

"You're home!" she said, stepping back and eyeing him. His hair was shorter and grayer than she remembered; his eyes were still as intense, and she reached forward and hugged him again.

"What are you doing here?" he said, but before she could answer, he said, "Are you meeting someone?"

"I'm meeting you," she said, and he laughed.

"Can you go for a drink?" he said. "My brother's picking me up but I'm sure he won't mind. I need to talk to you. You've heard the _Tiberius_ is being decommissioned—"

"I did," Natalie said as she and Chris started moving forward again, dodging the crowd. "What does that mean for you?"

"For us," Chris said. "It hasn't been announced yet, but it will be soon. The flagship being assembled at Riverside? She's mine, Natalie. I'm going to consult while she's being built and then take her out when she's finished. I want you there when I do."

"Chris, I—"

"I know you have a life here—a job, friends. But this would be a chance of a lifetime. This ship will have a crew complement three times larger than the _Tiberius_. Be able to go places we couldn't even consider before. Do research we could only dream about. You don't have to decide anything right now," he said, shifting his duffel as they made their way through the front doors of the terminal. "We're at least two years from launch. You could work as my adjunct until then, helping me with the run-up. No sudden moves while you decide if you want to go back into space."

Outside the wind was uncomfortably chilly and Natalie pulled the collar of her heavy coat up around her ears while Chris set his duffel down and buttoned up his jacket.

"Don't say anything until you've heard all the details," he said. His eyes were bright and he was more animated than she could remember ever seeing him. This new ship, then—pulling him forward like a magnet, deliberate and devoted, committed, single-minded. Had he always been this focused, this driven? His appreciation of her just that—an appreciation for her as a member of his crew, oblivious to any personal feelings she might have harbored—might still harbor?

_Of course._

She felt something switch off inside her, like a light going out. For a moment she let herself feel an odd emotion—sadness, relief?—that she couldn't name, and then she took a breath and said, "Okay."

"I don't know where Eric is," Chris said, craning his neck toward the ongoing traffic.

"I wasn't joking when I said I was meeting you," Natalie said. "He asked me to pick you up."

"You? Where is he?"

"He's at work," Natalie said, touching Chris lightly on the arm and motioning him forward. "He'll be home by the time we get there. He's really glad you're here. We both are."

Leaning down to pick up his duffel, Chris said, "What are you talking about?"

And then Natalie saw a shadow flicker across Chris' expression and he stood upright.

For months she had tried to imagine this moment—how she would feel, what Chris would do. For so long they had been out of touch—hardly a word shared between them—until she convinced herself that the dreams that had driven her away were silly fabrications—the artifacts of unreciprocated longing on her part.

His love for his ship—for heading off into _terra incognita_ —settled her now and made what she had to say unencumbered by emotion…or at least as straightforward as she could make it.

"Eric," Natalie said, "and I are getting married."

X X X X X X X

The temblor is so slight that most people can't feel it. Spock, however, is awake at once.

Checking his computer, he confirms what he already knows, that the quake registered between 2.8 and 2.9 on the old Richter scale.

Briefly he weighs the benefits of resuming his rest against the productivity he can add to his day if he gets up now. Productivity, then. He has lots to do.

Although the semester is officially over, three of his students applied for and were granted a deadline waiver for a joint project. Normally Spock takes a jaundiced view about requests to miss deadlines, but these students have legitimate reasons for not finishing their research on time. Access to the long-range sensors has been limited as the technicians try to track down an intermittent signal anomaly. That would have been problem enough, but the Academy mainframe underwent a software microfit two weeks ago that slowed the upload speed—an issue finally resolved yesterday.

When he checks his mail inbox, Spock sees that the students' project is there at last, waiting to be graded. After a meal and some light exercise, he will get to it.

Or at least, that is his intention. To his surprise, instead of heading to the kitchen to prepare a morning meal, he finds himself calling Nyota.

Not so illogical, considering the time difference between San Francisco and Nairobi. If he calls now, the odds are high that she will be awake and alert.

She answers immediately, and suddenly he is tongue-tied. If she is startled that he is calling hours before their agreed on time, she doesn't sound it. Indeed, her voice is warm and tender and he feels a spike of irritation that he called on his comm instead of using the videophone where he could see her while they talked.

 _Impatience leading him to make poor choices_ —he makes a mental note to contemplate that more fully when he meditates.

She's been away only 49 hours, 17 minutes, and 23 seconds—barely more than two days-but for the first time, Spock understands what his mother means when she insists that time is a subjective experience.

Nyota has been away _forever._

When she first arrived at her parents' house she called to let him know she was safe—and he embarked on what has turned out to be a series of surprises—first, that he worried about her routine flight home. Another surprise was at how much pleasure hearing her voice accorded him.

And unwelcome surprises, too, such as his annoyance when she ended their call quickly yesterday—"My aunt is here! I have to go!"—and the uneasiness he feels now about the background noise behind her, sounds of laughter and music.

"You are not alone," he says, and she tells him that she is at a party of a friend.

"I can't hear you very well," she says. "Can I call you back?"

"There was an earthquake this morning," he says, uncertain why he suddenly needs to tell her this.

"Are you okay!" she asks, a note of alarm in her voice, and he feels a satisfaction that appalls him. So this is why he told her about the quake— _shameless pandering for an emotional response._

He adds it to his list of things to contemplate during meditation.

They hang up after she promises to call again soon, and at once he is at loose ends. The Academy gym stays open all night and is a short walk away. A brisk workout might be in order.

Or perhaps some fresh berries from the farmers market would give him the energy to begin the day in earnest.

Walking into the kitchen, he fills the kettle, plugs it in, but then doesn't turn it on. A cup of tea?

As he stands at the kitchen window, his hand on the kettle switch, he notices the faint light of morning beginning to lighten the sky—streaks of purple and gray, and as he watches, a small patch of red over the horizon.

Perhaps, he thinks, his odd mood is the result of his conversation with his mother before he went to sleep. She was unhappy with him and let him know it.

Ever since he was a child Spock has found his mother's anger hard to bear. Not that Sarek was the easier parent, or even the less temperamental one. But his mother's anger was always swift and sharp and direct.

And loud. He had to turn down the volume on the subspace transceiver during their call.

"But we haven't seen you in months," she complained when he resisted her invitation to visit over the holiday break. "And your father is leaving soon for Altair. It may be months before he returns. We'd like to see you before then."

"My teaching responsibilities leave little time for travel," he said. "Not to mention my duties for the _Enterprise._ " In spite of the grainy resolution of the subspace monitor, Spock could see that his mother wasn't convinced.

"I thought the school term was over."

"Officially, yes, though I have students who are finishing up their work past deadline. And while my assistant is away visiting her family, I agreed to manage the language lab for her."

"I thought she wasn't your assistant any more," Amanda said, and Spock tried not to sigh.

"Also officially correct," he said, "but I told her supervisor that I would assist with the lab during the break."

"I just hate thinking of you all alone in that apartment," his mother said, shaking her head, and Spock was relieved that she no longer sounded angry with him.

"Mother," he said, "I will be fine. I have much to do to keep me occupied until the next term begins and the students return."

And then, because his mother looked dubious, he said, "It may be possible for me to come to Vulcan during the spring break."

As he hoped, his mother perked up immediately.

"Well, that's something."

But the conversation left him unaccountably restless. Falling asleep was more difficult than usual.

Leaving the kitchen, he returns to his bedroom and lights his _asenoi,_ settling cross-legged in front of it. As soon as he slips into the first level of awareness, his attention is jostled by the chiming of his comm.

_Nyota._

The voice on the other end is not Nyota's at all, but deep and masculine.

"Spock? Are you okay?"

His cousin Chris Thomasson—and instantly Spock understands.

"My mother."

"Yeah," Chris says, "she called. She's worried about you."

This time Spock does sigh. Standing up, he leans over and snuffs out his _asenoi_.

"Her worry is unfounded," he says. "I told her as much."

Chris's laugh is like a bark.

"Mothers," he says. Spock says nothing to disagree.

"Actually," Chris says, "I was going to call you anyway. What are you doing for the holidays?"

"As I told my mother, I have a great deal of work to do."

"Every single day? I don't believe that."

"Nevertheless—" Spock begins, but Chris continues.

"Listen," he says, "I was having some people over for a big meal tomorrow and they canceled on me. Now I'm stuck with all this food. What say you hop a ride up here and spend the night? We haven't had time to talk since—"

Chris doesn't finish his sentence and Spock thinks about the last time he saw him, after Rachel's hurtful outburst.

"Bring Cadet Uhura," Chris says. "It would be nice to see her again, too."

"She is with her family," Spock says. And then, perhaps because his mother is foremost in his thoughts, he makes an effort at the sort of social nicety she tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to instill in him.

"But thank you," he says, and Chris replies, "Sure. If you change your mind, I'll be here."

When he hangs up Spock heads back to the kitchen. Not at all hungry, he nevertheless decides to eat. As he bends forward to open the cooling unit, he hears his comm chime again. Glancing down, he sees Chris' name. Perhaps he's forgotten something?

But this time the caller is Nyota—using the comm Chris set up so that she and Spock could call without raising any suspicions.

"Now tell me about that earthquake," she says, and he hurries to dismiss her concerns.

"It was nothing," he says. "I should not have mentioned it."

She tells him about the party—about seeing friends she had fallen out of contact with, of catching up with a favorite cousin. As she speaks he conjures up her image, the way she punctuates her words with gestures of her hands, her fingers flying across the air when she is excited or happy, her voice bubbling, alive.

_She's having a good time._

Another surprise—and he realizes that he had expected something else—for her to pine for him, to resent the time spent apart, to express her longing to be together. That she has done none of this is the third thing he puts on his list for meditation.

She ends the conversation with another promise to call tomorrow.

"I'm sending you some pictures," she says, and before he knows it, he's on the sofa, thumbing through them, mining them for details.

Here she is in a decorative caftan, her hair in an unusual updo, her arms draped around two other women standing in front of a low house.

And another, a close-up of her and a young man Spock recognizes as her older brother. Both are smiling broadly at the camera, the bright sunlight making them squint.

He deletes each one after he studies it, though he mentally carries the images with him as he showers and pulls out his duffel from his closet.

As he folds his clothes and packs his kit, he discovers the final surprise of the day, that he's glad Nyota is not here—or rather, he's glad that she's where she is, with people she cares about, who care about her. If being _lonely_ —if _missing_ her for a few days is the price for her enjoyment, then so be it.

"Hey!" Chris says when Spock calls him back. "I'll pick you up at the Seattle transport station. I'm glad you changed your mind."


	10. Mayday

**Disclaimer: Some borrowing; no selling; no money at all.**

"A long trip for nothing."

Chris hunches over his drink, his elbows propped on the tall round bar table. To his right, Natalie sips her tumbler of scotch and nods. What a waste of a day this has been. First the early morning briefing at HQ, then the flight to The Hague, then the surprise at the Intergalactic Criminal Court when the four accused terrorists changed their plea to guilty.

Now here she is, crowded around a bar table in San Francisco with Chris and Spock and two other captains who had been called to testify: Thom McEwan of the _Farragut_ and Silvia Hopper of _Endeavour._ Both had been in Leiden during the bombings last spring; both had seen Pike and Spock disable the attackers.

They had traveled to Leiden together this morning and back again after the trial was called off late in the afternoon. When their shuttle landed at the transit terminal, Captain Hopper suggested they all have a drink—to celebrate the end of the affair, she said, though Natalie knows that Chris is angry at the guilty pleas—that he wanted to testify, had been confident that the terrorists would end up serving extra time if he had.

"Now they're damn martyrs," he says, his eyes glowering as he lifts his glass to his lips. "You see that crowd at the gate? It's not going away anytime soon."

Since the Leiden bombings, groups of sympathizers and protestors with the xenophobic group Earth United have congregated around the west gate of the Academy campus most days. Sometimes the crowds are thin—just a few people in shorts and trainers carrying crude signs that say "Go Home!"

On the days the trial makes the news, the crowds swell to include more raucous members. Twice in the past month Natalie has passed through the gate with Spock when pointed comments were yelled at them—or, if she is honest with herself, at him. She's a target only when she is with an alien—at least that was true until today.

"Abolish Starfleet" said one of the signs she saw today. And a petite woman in a neat skirt and blouse and pumps—looking for all the world like a bank CEO—shouted, "You're giving away our world!" as Natalie and the other officers passed by.

"Yeah, we definitely need a drink," Captain Hopper had said, leading the way past the crowd at the gate to the side street a block further on. "Moe's is closed, but I know another place."

Spock held back then and Natalie sensed that he was about to make his apologies and leave.

"You need to come," she said. She saw something miniscule flicker through his expression—disagreement, distaste? She couldn't tell. At any rate, he said nothing more but followed her and the other officers to a small tavern around the corner.

The bar was almost empty, though the few patrons already seated looked up curiously when they entered. No wonder. Placed around the bar were several large vidscreens, all of them broadcasting versions of the news. On one, the tall glass building housing the Intergalactic Court was in the background while a reporter gave details about the guilty pleas. From the corner of her eye, Natalie saw a headshot of the leader of the attackers on another screen. If she watched long enough, she was sure she'd see photos of Chris and Spock.

"Could you—?" she said to the bartender, pointing to the largest screen over the bar.

He shrugged and changed the channel to sports while Natalie pulled out a chair and Chris and the others settled around the table.

"I have to admit I'm surprised," Captain McEwan said, slipping into a chair. "I thought they'd milk the trial for attention."

Natalie doesn't know Captain McEwan very well—though she's seen him at enough briefings to know that he is quiet and measured, his voice rarely raised in anger or excitement. That he and Chris are such good friends is something of a surprise—they are that different in temperament. Shorter than Chris and stockier, he is a few years younger—his face unlined, his hair still dark blonde.

Captain Hopper is the oldest of the three captains—and the most experienced. Chris told Natalie that Captain Hopper had been Starfleet's first choice to command the _Enterprise_ but that she turned it down. Whether or not that was true, Natalie isn't sure.

As she watches Captain Hopper in the bar, Natalie realizes why she would have been a natural on the bridge of the flagship. She's a take-charge kind of person, and fearless. Of course, so is Chris. Natalie looks at him as he waggles his finger to the bartender and orders a second drink.

"Being a martyr is better than being a convicted criminal," Chris says, and Captain Hopper snorts.

"Either way they're headed for prison," she says.

"But this way," Chris says, "they look like victims. Of _course_ they aren't going to stand trial—because no one would give them a fair shake. Might as well go ahead and plead guilty. Now that crazy crowd out there—"

At this Chris turns slightly and motions to the door of the bar.

"—can argue that they _aren't_ really guilty. They're just sandbagged by an unfair system. What's the matter, Spock? That doesn't seem logical to you?"

The attention around the small table shifts to Spock and Natalie feels a wave of sympathy for him. In staff gatherings he's never been reticent about giving his opinion—even at the risk of irritating some of the crew.

But tonight he seems…not shy, exactly, but withdrawn. Because he's with three captains? That doesn't seem likely. The trial, then. Perhaps like Chris he was hoping to have his say in court and feels cheated by the change in plea.

"Why," he says slowly, "would a guilty plea convince…supporters…that the accused were innocent? After all, they are _admitting_ their guilt."

The four humans at the table laugh. Spock's eyebrows knit together.

"Just because they say it," Captain Hopper says, "doesn't mean they are being truthful."

"Then their supporters believe they are lying about being guilty."

"Yep," Chris says, lifting his empty glass to his mouth and letting the ice rattle against his teeth. He starts to signal for another drink and Natalie slips her hand on his. _Careful_. He glances at her and sighs, and when the bartender looks in his direction, Chris shakes his head.

"So their supporters believe them to be guilty of assault, or they believe them to be guilty now of lying. Either way, the accused do not seem worthy of support," Spock says.

Captain McEwan nods.

"It's not logical," he says, "but then, people aren't very logical. Of course," he adds before Spock can respond, "most of their _supporters_ don't think they are lying. They believe they _are_ guilty. And they're glad. They're just mad that they got caught."

"You need to shut up!"

The voice belongs to a heavy-set balding man sitting at the next table over.

Natalie feels Chris stiffen beside her.

"No one's talking to you," he says, and Captain Hopper adds, "This is a private conversation."

Before she sees him, Natalie hears the man stand up—and not just him, but two other men nearby get to their feet. Without making a sound, Spock is up, circling the table, and Chris swivels around, his glass still in his hand.

"Buddy," he says, "the last time I checked, this is a free country, and we can say whatever we want."

"Simmer down," Captain McEwan says, and Natalie stifles a nervous impulse to laugh. _Is he talking to the drunk or to Chris?_ It's good advice for both.

"We're not going to have any trouble in here," the bartender calls, and a tall, lanky man sidles up. The bouncer. _About time_ , Natalie thinks.

The man who shouted puts up his hands and says, "I didn't do nothing. Your Starfleet friends are the ones stirring things up."

"Finish your drink and head out," the bartender says. "All of you."

"Now wait a minute—" Chris says, standing up. Captain McEwan puts his hand on Chris' forearm.

"Chris," he says simply.

"That's right," the man says. "Call off your dog."

As Chris lunges, the man sags to the floor. Spock steps back from behind him and the other two men hurry out the door.

"Dammit, Spock!" Chris says, slamming his glass to the table.

The bouncer nudges the fallen man with his toe.

"What'd you do to him?"

"A nerve pinch," Spock says. "He is not permanently harmed."

"Perhaps a timely retreat is in order?"

This from Captain McEwan, who throws several credits on the table.

As they exit the bar, Natalie hears Chris grumbling and Captain Hopper chuckling.

"Why'd you stop me?" Chris says to Spock as they dodge a hover car making its way down the street.

"Be glad he did," Natalie says. "You've been in the news enough today."

X X X X X X X

"The offer still holds," Chris said, his voice tinny over the subspace transceiver. "All of it. Adjunct now, XO later—if that's what you want."

"I don't know, Chris," Natalie said her heart hammering so hard that she could barely hear herself speak. "That's a big commitment."

"I _need_ you, Natalie. I can't get this ship launched without you."

"Yes, you can."

"I'm not joking," he said, and Natalie could hear the desperation in his voice. "You tell me what you need to make this work. Just tell me."

Even through the snowy reception she could see him frowning.

"I'd have to give up my job—"

"What if I could promise that it would be there if you wanted it back? After the launch, if you don't want to go back into space, you can curl up in your cubbyhole—"

"You can't do that."

"Wanna bet? Admiral Barnett pretty much gave me _carte blanche_. I'll tell your supervisor that you are on a temporary assignment. That you're coming back in two years. To hold that slot for you."

"That wouldn't be fair to my replacement," Natalie protested, and she heard Chris breathe out.

"You can't have it both ways, Nat," he said.

"I'd have to talk it over with Eric," she said, and she heard Chris sigh again.

"Of course," he said. "But I need to know something by the end of the week."

"You still going to be on Mars?"

"I think so. It's taking longer to get the power coil specs than I thought. The engineers here keep putting me at the bottom of their priority list. That's why I need you! You know how to make the system work!"

She didn't tell Chris, but by the time she hung up, she knew she would take the job.

Eric wasn't happy.

_She would have to travel more. Her hours would be unpredictable. The stress would be greater. And after the ship launched, she would be out of a job._

She didn't try to counter any of his concerns. They were, in fact, all ones she shared.

"It's a chance of a lifetime," she said, and Eric scowled.

"That sounds like something Chris would say."

"It's true," Natalie said. Her voice sounded angrier than she felt and she tried to soften her words. "I don't know when there will be another chance to have this kind of impact. Can't you see how exciting that is?"

Eric took a breath and said, "I see how excited _you_ are."

Something in his tone was off and Natalie looked at him closely.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you sound excited. I'm just not sure it's about the ship."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing, Natalie. Forget I said anything."

"Eric," she said, forcing him to meet her gaze, "it's just for two years. Maybe less."

Eric looked away for a moment before turning back to her.

"I thought we were ready to start a family."

At that Natalie jumped. It was true that before they got married they discussed wanting to start a family soon, but since then they hadn't spoken about it directly. Indeed, Natalie assumed they would wait until they renewed their contract before thinking about children.

Like most couples, they had opted for a non-binding marriage contract that expired each two years. Couples who wanted to continue their marriages simply renewed the contract when the expiration date was up. Divorce had become rare since letting a marriage contract expire was easier—and far less expensive.

"I'm not sure I am—not right now," she said. "This is all so—"

Here she paused, searching for what she had never been able to say, not even to herself.

That being married to Eric was both wonderful and troubling—wonderful because he was a good person, kind and smart and steady and considerate. And troubling because she wanted to love him beyond measure, to be able to say " _I love you_ " and mean it…and she did love him—quietly, gratefully, tenderly.

If love was a _decision_ , a choice, then she loved him. She wanted good things for him, worked to bring those things into his life.

She could even imagine having children with him, raising them together, living with him into old age.

But if love was a _feeling_ —if it was something beyond her control, some attachment made when she wasn't looking, an overwhelming _need_ for someone, a longing that could not be stifled…she didn't finish the thought. She already knew the answer.

"It's your decision," Eric said, and Natalie nodded.

The next 18 months were both exactly as she imagined and completely surprising.

The work was not the surprise. It was intense from the beginning—the incredible lists of things to sort and order and do, the relentless pressure from Starfleet to meet or exceed deadlines, and the hours hunched over specs and requisition forms, usually while being jostled on a shuttle to and from Riverside.

Nor was it a surprise that she loved it. She had always loved order, had loved putting numbers in columns and watching them tally. The pressure cooker didn't bother her—in fact, it made her feel more alive than she had in several years, since her time on the _Tiberius_.

What was a surprise was that she could work so closely with Chris without being miserable. For that she had Eric to thank—not the man of flesh and blood, but his unseen presence that stilled her hand, that made her mute about any troubling feelings she might have been tempted to share with Chris.

And for his part—

"I would never do anything to hurt him," Chris said once, a few weeks after she started working as his attaché. They had been drinking after duty in his office, and Natalie had mentioned that Eric was out of town for the weekend.

Chris' comment made her blush. Had he thought she was offering something? She didn't ask.

When Earth United bombed the conference at Leiden, Natalie almost slipped. Seeing Chris facing down the terrorist, knowing that he could be seconds from dying…it changed something inside her, made her more afraid of seeing him in that situation again, more committed to staying planetside, and more heartbroken about that realization.

When the terrorists pleaded guilty months later, she thought how momentous that seemed at the time, how Earth United was the biggest threat she could imagine. No one there in that bar that night—not the stupid drunk itching for a fight, not Chris, not even Spock who was to lose so much the next day—had any inkling about what was going to happen.

Certainly not Captain Hopper, who would survive the Battle of Vulcan but succumb a week later from radiation exposure, or Captain McEwan, who went down with his ship.

None of them knew.

None of them knew how a Romulan madman would make their disagreements on earth seem puny by contrast, would erase personal considerations and commitments made back when the world seemed more predictable.

Natalie would remember that night in the bar not as a fight that almost happened but as the proverbial calm before the storm, an oasis in the desert they were going to have to traverse.

X X X X X X X

"Where are you!"

Not so much a question as an exclamation of surprise. Spock holds his comm in his right hand while he fishes his entry card out of his pocket.

"Entering my apartment," he says, swiping the card through the building reader and hearing the bolt click back. Pushing the door open, he steps into the dim hallway and listens. Distant music from the end of the hall, and laughter from the second floor. In two steps he is at his front door. Another swipe of the card and he is inside his living area.

"What are doing at home?" Nyota says. "I thought you were in Leiden."

"Evidently you have not seen the news," he says. "The trial ended earlier this afternoon."

"I thought it would go on for weeks!"

"The accused changed their pleas to guilty. The judges will pass sentence shortly."

"What do you feel about that?"

From anyone else, the question would border on insulting. Spock pauses and considers. What does he _feel_? Nothing much. The accused are now the convicted. They will be punished. He and the other people scheduled to testify are free to continue their regular schedules. The _Kobayashi Maru_ simulation scheduled for tomorrow, for instance. He can monitor it. He tells Nyota as much.

"But aren't you a little bit angry? That they changed their plea at the last minute?"

"It is the appropriate plea," Spock says. "Their guilt would have been proven if the trial had continued."

"I'd be mad," he hears Nyota say. "All that time you wasted having to give a deposition. And then traveling to Leiden for nothing."

"Captain Pike shares your sentiment," Spock says, and Nyota laughs. Suddenly he is not content just hearing her voice. He has to see her.

"If you are free—" he begins, and to his dismay she sighs.

"Oh, I promised Gaila I'd go to dinner with her. She's heard about this new diner that specializes in chocolate desserts and she's forcing me to keep her company."

She laughs again, but Spock has a flash of the crowd outside the west gate. Nyota alone would be able to come and go, but an Orion might attract unwanted attention. He feels his heartbeat speed up.

"Where is the diner?"

"I know what you're up to," she says, a tone of mischief in her voice. "But you wouldn't be able to eat a thing there."

"Nyota," he says, "it may not be safe."

He hears her laugh again.

"I appreciate your concern, but I've been eating chocolate all my life and it hasn't hurt me yet!"

"You misunderstand," he says. "I encountered a large group of protestors outside the west gate earlier today."

"They've been there for weeks," Nyota says, and Spock says, "But now that the trial is over, they are particularly…agitated. They may not let you pass unmolested."

For a moment the comm is silent and Spock feels his heartbeat slowing back to normal.

"Spock," Nyota says, and he can tell from the tone of her voice that his relief is premature. "I'm not going to let some racists ruin my life. I don't want to be a prisoner on the campus."

"Then let me accompany you," he says.

"We're just going for a quick bite," Nyota says. "I have to get to the long range sensor lab by 2100. Toby asked me to cover for him tonight and I said I would. I thought you'd be in Leiden for several days at least."

His disappointment that she is working in the lab tonight is dwarfed by his concern about her leaving campus with her roommate.

"I can be at your dorm in ten minutes," he says, and this time he recognizes exasperation in her tone.

"No, you won't! We're walking out the door now. I'll be okay! I'll talk to you tomorrow after the simulation. I don't know why I let Kirk talk me into it. I'm going to be so tired."

When she hangs up he briefly considers his options. He could run across campus to the west gate but the odds are high that he would arrive too late. He could call security, but they are already doing what he would ask them to do.

Feeling a flush of irritation, he sits heavily on the sofa, his comm in his hand. He could call her again and insist that she not go, make her see how dangerous the protests are becoming.

But even as he imagines dialing her number, he knows he won't do that, would never do that. She would take offense at his trying to control her—and rightly so.

_And yet._

He recalls his mother taking him aside one day when they were at the market, saying, "We won't tell your father about this just yet" as she purchased an expensive set of imported Terran silk sheets. At the time he had assumed she was indulging in the human custom of withholding information in order to please someone with a surprise, such as the time she ordered a refracting telescope from Cestis III for his birthday gift, another human habit she liked to indulge.

His father's birthday was more than half a year away, so if the sheets were a birthday gift, his mother was showing a great deal of foresight and restraint in buying them now.

But the very next day he overheard his mother commenting on the necessity of new sheets. From where he sat on the floor dissecting a _favinit_ flower, Spock darted a glance at his mother and saw her lift her hand slightly, as if to caution him not to speak. He turned his gaze away.

"The sheets we have are satisfactory," his father said.

His mother said nothing else then, but several days passed and she brought up the topic again.

"Why all this discussion about sheets?" Sarek said. "Amanda, if you wish, purchase new ones."

There. Spock assumed that now his mother would produce the new sheets from wherever she had hidden them. To his surprise, she picked up some mending she was doing instead and spent the evening quietly sewing.

A week went by before his mother mentioned sheets again. This time she waited until the family had eaten their evening meal and were sitting in the living area, Spock working on a model of an injector engine, his father reading.

"Here," his mother said, placing three small squares of cloth on the table where Sarek had his PADD. "Which do you like best?"

Sarek did nothing so dramatic as sigh, but Spock could sense his annoyance. So could Amanda, apparently, and she ran her hand along his arm soothingly.

"It won't take long," she purred, and Sarek let his gaze linger on her for a moment longer than he usually did.

As Spock watched, his father fingered each of the squares quickly.

"Well?" Amanda said. "Do you have a preference?"

"I do not," he said, picking up his PADD. "Choose the one you prefer."

"Then this one? You like it?"

She held up one of the squares and Spock saw his father lower his PADD.

"Amanda," he said, "it makes no difference to me."

"Then this one is your choice?"

"As I am being forced to choose," Sarek said with some asperity, "then I choose this one."

He picked up one of the squares and placed it in Amanda's hand.

"I apologize for interrupting your work," she said, lowering her eyes, and Spock felt a tremor through their family bond—an upwelling of exasperation and affection mingled together from his father, and his mother's humorous response.

That night Spock was still awake when he heard his father padding down the hall toward the bedroom. The light was on—not unusual, since his mother retired first and read in the bed. More often than not she fell asleep before Sarek joined her, but tonight Spock heard her soft murmur and then his father's voice, saying, "They _are_ more pleasing. I was unaware of the difference in quality."

Even now Spock isn't quite sure why his mother had acted as she had. Certainly her behavior was manipulative and secretive, even deceptive—and to what end? That Sarek agree with her selection of the expensive sheets? His father could be a force to be reckoned with—Spock had ample proof of that. Did his mother resort to such elaborate stratagems because she had no other choice?

Somehow that conclusion feels wrong. Perhaps his mother was simply amusing herself with some odd human tradition. The next time he speaks to her, he will ask.

_In the meantime—_

In the meantime….he won't get his way tonight. It is too late for that. By now Nyota and her roommate are already through the gate and whatever trouble waiting for them has been dealt with.

But he can plan ahead better, anticipate other assistance she might need.

Keep her safe, or as safe as he can. With or without her knowledge.

Standing up, he moves down the hall to his bedroom, switching off his comm and setting it in on his dresser before reaching for the primitive matches he keeps in a jar. With a quick motion he strikes one and lights his _asenoi._

Today has been disturbing for many reasons and he welcomes the chance to meditate quietly. Settling himself cross-legged on the pillow on his floor, he stares at the flickering light and feels himself letting go of the different pieces of the day.

Like watching a holovid he sees himself on the morning shuttle ride to Leiden, hears again the gasps of the audience when the defense attorneys announce the change in the pleas.

The ride back, and Captain Hopper's invitation to gather—his own reluctance and Natalie Jolsen encouraging him forward…he sees all this again and lets it drift away, like a grainy photograph.

The moment in the bar when he was certain that Captain Pike was going to throw a punch at the inebriated man—"This is a free country," the captain had said, and even Spock could see that the situation was escalating.

" _Simmer down"_ —that from Captain McEwan, whom Spock thought at the time was the lone voice of reason at the table, his words a calm, logical contrast to Captain Pike's leaping into the fray.

He lets that perception slide away and he replays his conversation with Nyota, his heart racing as it had the first time, his face flushing with worry. With a start, he opens his eyes and looks at the useless _asenoi._

_If she's hurt—_

The thought makes his throat constrict and with a sudden movement he gathers his jacket and leaves his apartment, his head tucked against the wind that blows in gusts across the common. He walks so quickly that his breathing becomes labored, but he doesn't slow down until he is outside the building housing the long-range sensor array. Scanning the fourth floor, he sees that the lab lights are on and he starts to turn back. She's there, safe, working the night shift as she said she would.

A doubt niggles at the back of his mind and he stops. Checking the sign-in sheet becomes imperative, and he finds himself making his way up the steps and into the foyer of the building. A cadet sits behind the reception desk but Spock shakes his head and motions with his hand to say that he needs no help. Instead, he leans forward and taps the screen where he sees her name and the time when she signed in.

"Thank you," he says to the baffled cadet, and then he heads back outside.

What he doesn't know is that tomorrow he'll be given the task of assigning the cadets to ships able to assist Vulcan after the distress call, and as his fingers hover over Nyota's name, he will recall Captain McEwan's hand holding back Captain Pike.

"Simmer down," Captain McEwan had said, cautious, reasonable, logical.

And with a flick of his stylus, he will send both Nyota and her roommate to the _Farragut_ , Captain McEwan's ship.

Keeping them out of harm's way. Whether or not they know it.

**A/N: Chris and Natalie's back story is now up to date with what is happening on 2258.41. The next day the Narada arrives at Vulcan.**


	11. Beat to Quarters

**Disclaimer: I didn't create most of these characters, so it's no surprise they don't obey me. What** _**is** _ **a surprise is that my own creations don't listen, either.**

Even over the ambient noise in hangar deck one, he recognizes the angry tattoo of her boots. He keeps his gaze on the monitor in front of him.

"Commander, a word?"

As he anticipated, she's angry. The timbre of her voice is two pitches lower than normal. Her breathing is labored.

"Yes, lieutenant," he says, glancing down at his PADD, careful not to look in her direction. It sounds odd to refer to her as a lieutenant instead of a cadet. Under any other circumstances, such a field promotion would be cause for celebration. Not today.

"Was I not one of your top students?"

A rhetorical question. Normally he ignores questions that require no answer or have, as this one does, a foregone conclusion. From the corner of his eye Spock sees Nyota peering at him, her intensity almost alarming. He has to say something.

The truth, then.

"Indeed you were."

Instead of mollifying her, his words increase her decibel level. As he signs off at the computer and makes his way to one of the shuttles, she follows him, reminding him of her accomplishments, her qualifications— _loudly, forcefully_.

He doesn't disagree.

"And while you were well aware that my unqualified desire is to serve on the _USS Enterprise_ , I'm assigned to the _Farragut_?"

Another rhetorical question.

The truth?

The truth is that he assigned her to the _Farragut_ because the nature of the emergency on Vulcan is unknown; that whatever is threatening the planet may threaten the ships that rush to its aid; that as the flagship, the _Enterprise_ will be on the forefront of any danger.

Smaller and more maneuverable than the _Enterprise_ , the _Farragut_ is also commanded by Thom McEwan, a captain with a reputation for caution. If hostile forces are at work—and Spock suspects that may be the case—the _Farragut_ is less of a target than the larger ship.

Nyota will object. She will resent his protectiveness, accuse him of trying to control her. Worse, she will believe he is unjust, offering her preferential treatment, letting others take a risk rightly hers.

And perhaps most of all, she will cast his decision to assign her to the _Farragut_ as a referendum about her ability—not that he questions her achievements so far but that he questions her future on a starship. Out of concern for her safety or not, it won't matter. She's chosen her future, has worked hard to make it happen, and if he thwarts her to keep her safe, she will never forgive him.

So he lies.

Or rather, he tells her what he thinks she will believe, something that is true enough.

"It was an attempt to—"

His voice hitches slightly. He glances at a passing crewman and speaks more softly.

"—avoid the appearance of favoritism."

Since his disciplinary hearing, avoiding the appearance of favoritism has controlled his movements, has stayed his hand, has kept him apart from Nyota more often than he desired. When they are together, they speak of the need for caution, feel the weight of being observed when they are in public. That he would let it determine her ship assignment is not unrealistic—indeed, he feels a measure of relief that no one can argue that she is on the flagship because of their relationship. Of course she deserves the posting, but he lets her believe that his personal concern about being reprimanded again overshadows what he knows she wants.

He would rather she thought him selfish than patronizing.

"No," she says, her eyes narrowing, her voice firm. "I'm assigned to the _Enterprise_."

His hesitation is momentary. The only other human woman he knows well is his mother, and he recognizes a familiar look in Nyota's eye. This type of resolve knows no bounds.

He glances down at his PADD and pulls up the assignment list.

"Yes, I believe you are," he says.

It is the second time today that he has lost control of a situation, that he has had to surrender, to acknowledge defeat.

The first time was this morning as he stood in the control room, flummoxed by the scene below him in the simulation chamber. There stood Cadet Kirk proclaiming his victory in the _Kobayashi Maru_ scenario. A computer subroutine, obviously, had sabotaged the simulation—though how Kirk had managed to overwrite Spock's program was a mystery.

And shortly afterwards, the verbal jousting with the cadet at the disciplinary hearing. It was, Spock admitted privately, galling.

The distress call from Vulcan wiped that concern away. Indeed, even giving in to Nyota's demand to change her assignment is a momentary annoyance, set aside in the business of getting the _Enterprise_ cleared to leave Spacedock.

At last they are underway—and the next few minutes is a series of vignettes that Spock will study at length and leisure later.

Such as his last sight of Stephen Puri. As Spock exits the turbolift onto deck six he sees the doctor hunched over a crewman, wielding a dermaplaster to repair a gash in the young woman's hand. A small image, relatively speaking, and of no great importance.

Except for what it says about the doctor. There he is, attending to a frightened lieutenant who until half an hour ago was a cadet, her biggest worry her next exam. Spock doesn't know how she cut her hand—moving heavy cargo with an inexperienced eye, slipping down a hatch—but he sees how Dr. Puri attends to her both physically and emotionally, visibly calming her, getting her to talk to him quietly as he trims the jagged edges of her wound and stitches them together.

All around him are medics stocking sickbay, scurrying with boxes and PADDs and a sense of purpose, with Dr. Puri the eye of the hurricane, gently putting one person back together.

Spock's last stop before heading to the bridge is engineering, and there is Greg Olson, standing with two crewmen at a console, his fingers flying across it. Looking up he sees Spock and he nods.

"We're ready," he says, and later Spock will realize that this is the last time he would see the engineer.

And another last time—his mother turning to him as they stand on the ledge near the katric ark, almost as if she knows, as if she can feel the universe pulling her away, her face lifted in a mixture of surprise and dismay as the ground beneath her feet lets go.

His arm outstretched, Spock leaping forward and feeling the brush of her silk scarf through his fingers.

"Mother!" he calls, the sound of his voice echoing in the dreams that haunt his future.

The shocking loss of control soon afterward, when his mind deserts him completely and he comes to, like someone waking from a nightmare, his hand around Kirk's neck, his thumb curved inward, aching to squeeze just a little harder, anticipating the feel of broken vertebrae.

And one more loss after that—giving up the ship Captain Pike has entrusted him with, admitting defeat in front of his senior crew, vacating the scene, Nyota's murmur and then his father's footfalls. _Inconsolable._ He's heard that word before without knowing its meaning. The knowledge is hard won.

The next thing he recalls is the transporter room, his father there with him.

"I loved her," Sarek says, and the tumblers in Spock's mind click and snap and fall into place then and he knows what he has to do.

The new captain persuaded, a hasty goodbye—he remembers the details but saves them to examine later, like someone scanning files without reading them.

And with a jolt he is here, in the Vulcan ship, his senses as keen and alert as they have ever been—more so than when he faced death in the Forge on his _kahs-wan_ , more alive than the time he almost died in a flash flood, he and his cousin Chris scrambling to hold on to a barely-forgiving rock.

The controls, both familiar and not—oddly lit, curved in a way that fits his hands. He flexes the fingers of his left hand and a barrage of weapons fire spews out, blasting open a hole in the forward section of the _Narada._

_As he had known it would._

_Fascinating._

Navigating through the spiny Romulan sensor array, Spock angles the little ship toward the drill base and lets loose another barrage of fire. Several bolts of energy bypass the drill assembly but three connect and Spock sees the metal buckle and then separate completely. The bottom half of the drill falls, untethered, whipping around wildly at first and then settling into a heavy mass, striking the water of the bay meters from the bridge.

Without looking behind him, he knows the huge ship will barrel down on him next. A flick of his wrist and he feels the Vulcan ship shimmer into warp.

Outrunning the _Narada_ is impossible. Even this slight head start is a temporary reprieve.

He uses the moments before the Romulan ship drops into warp behind him to relive the events of the day—Captain Pike promoting Nyota to communications officer on the strength of her skills in Romulan dialects, Kirk's bravura announcement echoing in the hallway: _"Either we're going down or they are."_ McCoy's anger matching his own at the loss of Stephen Puri.

Worthy shipmates. He's leaving the _Enterprise_ in good hands. He hasn't let Captain Pike down after all.

He turns the little ship around.

"Ambassador Spock," the ship's voder says, "you are on a collision course."

_A rhetorical statement, needing no response._

"Incoming missiles. If the ship is hit, the red matter will be ignited."

Another rhetorical statement, but he feels compelled to answer—the consequences are too dire not to acknowledge.

"Understood."

The closest missiles glow a peculiar shade of green as they skim across the expanse separating him from the _Narada_. Behind them follow many more, still faint pinpricks of light. Too many, at any rate, to eliminate or dodge successfully. On the monitor the first missile is a bright blue arrow, closing rapidly, the distance ticking down, numbers rolling toward zero. Looking up, he watches the pulsing green energy darting toward him—

And disintegrating, the particles scattering harmlessly across the forward viewscreen. Suddenly the space around him is bright with phaser fire.

The _Enterprise._

He's instantly furious. The _Enterprise_ , in danger—

A pang of regret—and if he is honest, sorrow—as he aims the Vulcan ship directly at the _Narada_. Then his death becomes an abstraction, now that it is here at hand, something he considers, accepts, and sets aside. He indulges himself by immersing himself in memories of his time with Nyota. Like a collage of images scrolling past, he sees with eidetic clarity the way the sunlight reflects in her hair, hears her murmur in his ear, feels her eyelash flutter across on his cheek when she nuzzles his neck.

Regret that their time together has been so short, so fraught with difficulty. Sorrow that his last words to her have turned out to be a lie—"I will be back"—

He doesn't waver. The force of the impact, he estimates, will set up a chain reaction in the red matter almost immediately. If he manages to clip the _Narada's_ core reactor, the shock wave will throw the _Enterprise_ clear of the singularity well.

After failing all day—after watching his control slip time and again—he's finally able to make the universe bend to his will. He sets the necessary correction in the navigation computer and sits back to take in what must happen next.

The _Narada_ looms up like an angry lobster and Spock watches the long filaments of the sensor array slipping past as he gets closer. He looks down at the monitor—an illogical desire to see how long until impact—and he notices his hand, and then his arm, beginning to glow.

Struggling to stay upright, he totters slightly as his feet make contact with the transporter pad. A quick glance to his right confirms what he suspects, that Kirk has Captain Pike in tow. Medics rush the pad and there is Nyota, her fingers seeking his own.

X X X X X X X

"I left my post three times today," she says to the captain. "I should be relieved of duty."

"Three? You were counting?"

"Please don't joke," she says. "I'm not proud of it."

Delta shift, at least marginally. Unable to sleep, Nyota has volunteered to do double duty. Spock, she knows, is somewhere in engineering, juryrigging enough controls to keep the impulse engines online until the tugs arrive to tow the _Enterprise_ back to Spacedock. As far as she can tell, the captain hasn't left the bridge since assuming command.

As good a time as any to confess.

Kirk leans back and says, "I understand why you followed me from the communications center—"

"That was the first time," Nyota says, looking down. Four other crewmen are on the bridge, none of them close enough to overhear her conversation with the captain, but she keeps her voice lowered anyway. "I thought Captain Pike needed to know—"

"That I was a stowaway?"

"That the Romulans had been sighted in the area."

"And he did need to know. So stop worrying about it."

He raises one shoulder, then the other, wincing, his eyes closed. When he opens them again, Nyota can tell he is watching to make sure she notices. _Showboat. Everyone's tired and sore._ She feels a wave of the old impatience she used to feel with him back at the Academy.

 _That's not fair,_ she thinks, and her irritation evaporates.

"I left the bridge after the attack," she says, and Kirk raises his eyebrows and waits, but she isn't about to explain what happened in the turbolift with Spock.

"I thought I needed to…talk…to Commander Spock," she says, not meeting Kirk's gaze.

"So you didn't just…leave," Kirk says. "I mean, you had a reason for leaving the bridge."

"But not with permission," Nyota adds, and Kirk says, "Well, sometimes you have to do things without it."

"That's not all," she says, shifting from one foot to the other. From this angle, Kirk looks almost gray with exhaustion, and Nyota feels a swell of pity for him. She rushes on.

"And later, when you returned from the Romulan ship, I left my post and came to the transporter room."

"How'd you even know—"

"I was monitoring your frequencies," she says. "I thought that Commander Spock had—"

She doesn't continue but she knows she doesn't need to. By now everyone on the ship has heard about Spock's suicide run on the _Narada._

"You forgot about the fourth time," Kirk says, an odd expression flicking across his face. " _Before_ we left. In the transporter room. I saw you there. Remember?"

At least he has the decency to look embarrassed.

"I was adjusting the settings on Commander Spock's universal translator," she says, meeting Kirk's gaze. "That's why I was in the transporter room…that time."

"A universal translator? You gave him one and I got nothing?"

She darts a glance at him—surely he isn't making a _double entendre_.

The tiniest smirk, an almost-wink. She laughs despite herself. The man is incorrigible.

He shifts in his chair and rubs his eyes with a grand gesture like a character in an old vaudeville play.

"Now, lieutenant," he says, "unless you have anything else to report, I suggest you get back to your post."

She stands for a moment, wavering. During the chaos of the day she hadn't had time to evaluate her own actions. Not until later, as she sat wearily at her station, part of her mind reliving the moment when she knew that the little Vulcan ship was hurtling to destruction, had she been able to step outside the past few hours and think.

She didn't like what she saw.

"Captain, I—"

"Uhura," he says, not unkindly, "you did what you had to do. We all did. Now let it go."

An absolution, and from someone she wouldn't have accepted it from a day ago.

Now no one else can confer it quite as well.

"Aye, captain," she says, settling back in her seat at the communications console, where she belongs.

X X X X X X

Natalie sets her comm on the table in front of her and folds her hands in her lap. She's promised Eric that as soon as she hears anything else, she'll call.

"Any news will come here first," she had told him, explaining why she was staying the night at headquarters. That's true, of course—though command is good about notifying family pretty quickly.

If she is honest with herself, the bigger reason she is staying put is that she can't face going home yet. Headquarters is a sorry substitute for being on the _Enterprise_ , but the comfort of her own home feels like a betrayal while so many are critically wounded on the ship.

She doesn't allow herself to think _"while Chris is critically wounded on the ship."_ Instead she shields that thought behind nameless crewmen, behind numbers. She's purposely not counted the ships lost—and no one has tried to tally the number of casualties.

Earlier that day as news of the attack streamed in in real time, she had bullied her way into one of the auxiliary monitoring centers and watched in horror as the telemetry and videos from the fleet came in—the _Farragut_ sending back the first pictures of the large alien vessel, the _Endeavour's_ science officer transmitting a detailed scan of the weapons signature even as it barreled down on the ship, stopping the scan abruptly.

And _Enterprise_? Natalie elbowed her way to stand next to the large screen where the technician frantically tried to unscramble the confusing array of information coming from the ships under fire. A screen shot here, a scrap of audio there—but she couldn't see or hear anything about the _Enterprise._

Had the ship already been destroyed?

Natalie didn't believe that, couldn't make herself entertain the thought long enough to articulate it. Chris wouldn't go down without a fight—without taking someone with him.

And then there it was, a signal packet sent as the _Enterprise_ prepared to drop out of warp.

 _They don't know what's waiting for them,_ Natalie thought. _They must have been late to the party._

And indeed that seemed to be the case. The tech manning the screen said, "Another ship!" right as Natalie saw an image being broadcast from one of _Endeavour's_ escape pods. The _Enterprise_ , all right, the saucer clearly visible despite the shadowy pod camera.

Green fire lancing out—and Natalie fell back from the screen like someone avoiding a fistfight.

The pod moved out of range soon after and she had to rely on audio to piece together what was happening. Then someone on the _Enterprise's_ bridge hailed Starfleet but the signal degraded swiftly into white noise.

For an hour—no, for 47 minutes—no one on Earth knew what was happening.

And then 47 minutes later—an eternity—a faint signal came through, the voice of the communications officer apprising Starfleet of the ship's status.

"Captain Pike has been critically wounded," the young woman said. "James Kirk is in command."

Spock must be one of the casualties, then. Natalie took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

"Warp engines are offline," the officer said. "Request immediate assistance. _Enterprise_ out."

More data came in fast and furious over the next hours. The warp core had been jettisoned; damage to the rest of the ship's systems is extensive. Life support is operational. The impulse engines are working.

Some good news in the midst of the cataclysm.

And Chris is alive and in surgery. Dr. Puri is dead but Leonard McCoy is onboard. When Natalie manages to get a message through to him personally, he almost bites her head off for bothering him but lets her know that Chris will survive.

"He's been infected with some sort of alien parasite," McCoy says, and Natalie's heart hammers so loudly in her ears that she thinks she may have heard him wrong. "It's done some neurological damage that may be permanent," the doctor adds. "Time will tell. Now leave me alone so I can get back to work."

X X X X X X

"Careful with the ship, Spock."

"Don't talk, captain," someone says, and Chris tries to open his eyes. Sickbay? Must be. But why is he here?

The Romulans, he has to warn Starfleet about the Romulans.

Except that he's pinioned, unmoving. So he's not in sickbay but still on the _Narada_. He pulls against the restraints across his abdomen and hears the same voice cautioning him again.

"He's fighting the sedative," a second voice says.

Damn right, he's fighting it! He has to warn Starfleet!

"Twenty cc's of dexahydrosine," the first voice says. A warmth rushes through Chris' arm and up his shoulder, flooding his face and neck and torso. He tries again to pull his arm free and feels a weight pressing him down.

"Chapel!" the voice shouts, surprisingly close. "I told you to hold him still!"

"I'm trying, doctor, but he's—"

"I'm not interested in what you are trying to do! Just do it!"

The warmth travels down his legs and all the way to his toes and Chris remembers that he wanted to tell Spock something important about the ship.

"Careful with the ship, Spock," he says. "She's brand new."

Spock will be careful, Chris knows. Natalie would have been careful, too, but she's somewhere else.

_Home._

A wave of longing sweeps over him. He needs to get home. His parents will wonder why he's so late. Eric will be pissed at having to muck out the barn alone. And he really should take Firebird for a run. She's been restless lately and hard to settle. Maybe a weekend camping trip into the canyon?

"You can't go in there," the sheriff says, holding up one hand as Chris lands his flitter beside the roadblock at the perimeter of the farm. "There's been a fire."

In the haze of the drug he knows he isn't back in California, that he is on the _Enterprise_. He struggles to open his eyes, to confirm what one part of his brain knows, but the images from the past pull him down, down, and he gives up, looking around at the dry grass standing in tufts along the split rail fence, winking against the relentless wind that brings the smell of smoke and ash.

"My brother—" he says, and from behind him someone pats his back and says, "He's okay."

Drawing a shaky breath, he says, "I need to get to the bridge."

"You're not going anywhere," a voice says. "Things are in good hands."

Spock will take care of the ship. And he has Kirk. _First officer_ Kirk. Chris snorts as he recalls the expressions on the faces of the two men—Kirk frankly astonished, Spock looking as close to aghast as any Vulcan could.

"Captain," the voice says, "you have to lie still. We're transferring you to a medical shuttle soon and you'll be on your way. You'll beat us home."

"Tell Spock," he says, "to take care of the ship."

And then the darkness catches up with him and he tries once more to leap forward and grab hold onto something, but his fingers slip through air, the last sound in his ear Natalie's voice, gruff and breathy, telling him that everything will be alright, and with that he finally lets go.


	12. Harbor Lights

**Disclaimer: I neither own nor profit from these guys.**

Nyota hesitates outside her dorm room, the hard plastic key card in her hand. Down the hall she can hear someone murmuring—Jasper or Mico, most likely, the doors to their rooms left open the way they always are, so they can chat. She had spotted them walking ahead of her on the commons a few minutes ago but had hung back deliberately, not wanting to have to answer any questions.

She doesn't know either well—just that they are both second year cadets. Most of the people she knows—that she _knew_ —were fourth years ready to graduate.

_Almost an entire class gone._

With a decisive motion, she swipes her card through the reader and hears the door unlatch. It gives way when she pushes it; she hesitates a second time before stepping over the threshold.

She's been away less than a week but the room already smells stale, as if no one has lived here for years. The thought makes her angry and she smacks her hand on the light sensor with so much force that her knuckles sting.

As she knew it would, the room looks exactly as it had when she had been called to sudden duty with the rest of the graduating class. Two narrow beds—one neatly made, the other a tangled nest of sheets and pillows and piled up clothes. Nyota steps to the unmade bed and reaches out as if to touch it.

Before her fingers make contact, she curls them into her palm and steps away.

On her desk her computer is blinking, a queue of messages to be answered. They can wait. She's already spoken by subspace to her parents, insisted that they not come to San Francisco yet; the debriefing and medical evaluations will take up her time for another week or so.

Quickly she wonders if Spock has sent her a note but dismisses that idea. He knows she's too upset to respond if he does.

Beside her computer is a bottle of dark nail polish—Gaila's, like the myriad small bottles and compacts of exotic make-up and scents strewn across the dressers and desks. Picking up the nail polish with her right hand, Nyota unfurls the fingers of her left and holds them up as if she is inspecting them, as she had done a week ago when Gaila finished painting them.

"It's so dark!" Nyota had complained about the color, but Gaila had done what she always did, ignored the criticism and laughed, confident that she could charm anyone into good humor.

The memory blurs her vision and Nyota blinks it back fiercely. _Think of something else._

Spock, then, and what he's doing now. Sitting alone in his apartment, in the dark or with his _asenoi_ casting flickering shadows on his bedroom wall.

Or packing already, sorting through his possessions, deciding which things he will be able to transport to the colony, which ones he will discard.

That image, too, threatens to bring her to tears and she steels herself by calling up her frustration—and if she is honest, her fury—with him.

He had been so raw, so broken that first night after the battle that they had said almost nothing to each other. After her double shift—after her confession to Jim Kirk and the grace he conferred on her—she willed herself to her quarters but found herself, like a character led astray in a fairy tale, at Spock's door instead, unsure how she had known where it was, not even certain he was there.

But he had answered the chime immediately, stepping aside and wordlessly asking her in.

And she had stayed there, except for when she was on duty, for the five days it had taken the tugs to tow the _Enterprise_ back to Spacedock. No one said a word or raised an eyebrow as she came and went—not even Sarek, who showed up one morning saying he needed to speak privately with his son.

If Spock was distant and quiet, she was neither surprised nor alarmed. Who wasn't feeling echoes of his grief, his loss?

Nor was she surprised or alarmed that he spent an increasing amount of time with the rescued Vulcan elders on board. That, too, was expected. He told her that he was establishing a database to catalogue survivors and was helping with the relocation efforts.

"What can I do?" she asked, but he shook his head and later she realized that he must have already known on the trip back from Vulcan that he would resign his commission and leave Starfleet.

And her.

He told her as soon as they got home. They were sitting sideways on the sofa in his apartment, knee to knee, and she had listened, her brows knit together, first in concentration and then in distress.

This was temporary, surely? But he said no, that the elders needed him for the foreseeable future. No matter how hospitable a world they relocated to, it would be bereft of infrastructure, culture, tradition. They were building from scratch.

_But that will mean you and I—_

She hadn't finished the sentence, realizing all at once what he was saying. She wasn't in his future.

"You lied to me," she said suddenly, and she could tell by the expression on his face that he understood the different layers of her meaning.

"You lied to me when you said you would come back," she told him.

What had that meant _—"I will be back"—_ if it didn't also mean _"I can't bear to leave you"_?

He had started to stand up then but she darted out her hand and made him pause, had leaned into him and felt his breath on her face, had brushed his fingertips and felt his sorrow and regret and the beginnings of his arousal.

She was relieved, thinking he was turning back to her.

They had made love then, never leaving the sofa, hardly undressing in their haste. Later she would realize what she didn't want to see—that their headlong rush to each other was more a retreat from sorrow than a measure of their passion.

She felt the distance opening up between them soon enough.

"Why didn't you tell me you were thinking of leaving Starfleet?" she said as they lay together afterwards, their breaths slowing, their skin cooling. Her words sounded petulant, even to her, and Spock's reply was both blamelessly logical and amazingly hurtful: "To what purpose, Nyota? I could not ask you to give up what you have worked for."

They talked until the afternoon light faded, a futile series of questions and answers that went nowhere, and then she slipped her shoes on and left, walking across the commons like a sleepwalker, seeing Jasper and Mico a hundred feet ahead of her as she neared the dorm.

As she sits at the desk, the blinking light on the computer demands her attention. Perhaps Spock has changed his mind, has sent her a note asking her to return, to not spend her first night back on Earth surrounded by things that remind her of loss.

She flicks on the screen and calls up the message queue.

Nothing from Spock, but two official notices from the dean of students.

Her chest tightens and she takes a breath.

The first asks her to gather up Cadet Farlijah-Endef's personal belongings. Someone from Gaila's clan will arrive in the next day or two to pick them up.

Nyota taps out a reply. She'll have everything boxed up soon.

The second is a notice that the academic council is meeting to decide when classes will continue. Whether or not to have an actual graduation ceremony in the spring is also being discussed.

The note includes a survey asking for suggestions about a memorial service.

Nyota lets her hand hover for a moment over the keyboard before she hits the delete button.

That action deflates her, makes her feel defeated in a way she hasn't felt until now—not even when she watched in disbelief as Vulcan imploded, nor when she forced herself to track Spock's signal as he doubled back toward the Romulan ship, not even when he looked up at her, anguished, and told her he was resigning his commission.

With one keystroke she signals her refusal to deal with the future. What does it matter when classes resume? They will eventually, and when they do, she will go, finishing out her final semester with grudging doggedness.

Or perhaps the fourth year students will be excused, graduation moved up or waived entirely.

She's too numb to care.

In one corner of the room is a box her mother sent recently. Dumping out the sweater inside—"It's winter there," her mother had protested. "I'm sending you something to keep you warm!"—she sets it on her bed, the neatly made up one, and looks around the room.

She'll need a bigger box for Gaila's clothes, of course, many which are piled on the floor like archaeological layers where Gaila had stepped out them, letting them fall on each other until Nyota would from time to time, exasperated, carry an armload to the washer.

The dresser, then. Nyota lifts one of the tiny boxes of colored powders and flips it open, holds it to her nose, is startled that Gaila's distinctive scent wafts out.

If she weren't so tired, so dazed by all that has happened in a week, she would weep.

Instead, she closes the lid carefully and sets it in the box on her bed.

And so on, until the top of the dresser is clear.

When she gets to the bottle of dark nail polish, she holds it in her hand for a moment and considers keeping it—not as a memento, but as a protest against letting Gaila go completely. Surely no one in her clan would object, even if Nyota doesn't ask their permission.

She returns the bottle to her own desk.

Pulling her comm from her pocket, she glances down to see if anyone—if _Spock_ —has tried to reach her.

No.

What was it he said? _I could not ask you to give up what you have worked for._

What if he had? Would she have gone with him to an unknown world, her own reason for being there uncertain? To live among people who might ignore any contributions she could offer? To step willingly off the path she chose long ago when she decided to apply to the Academy? What kind of person would offer her that dilemma, would ask that of her?

She feels her anger with him lessen.

If anything, he's more constrained than she is. What real option does he have?

She, at least, is facing a future she has always wanted, has, as Spock said, worked hard to bring it about with her own free will.

He isn't as free.

The idea saddens her but steadies her, too. She won't make life harder for him than it already is, won't let him leave thinking she is too wounded to carry on.

Because she's not. She's hurt, of course—no, not _hurt_ , for that implies a possible recovery—but damaged.

 _As is everyone else._ Holding her own pain up as something extraordinary suddenly strikes her as selfish beyond belief.

She will carry on. Finish her courses and graduate—with a formal ceremony or not—and head out to a career among the stars as she always intended.

Not the same person she was a week ago. None of them are.

But still standing. Still standing, despite everything.

That has to count for something.

X X X X X X X

"If you don't eat, McCoy will yell at me," Natalie says. As she hopes, Chris grimaces but picks up his spoon.

"I don't need a mother hen," he grouses, leaning forward awkwardly in his mobile chair over the dinner tray Natalie sets in front of him.

Tilting his plate forward slightly to help him scoop up some mashed potatoes, she says, "Apparently you do."

Natalie looks up in time to catch a frown darkening Chris' expression.

"Well," she says, "you _do_. Might as well face up to that fact right now and save us all a lot of time arguing about the obvious."

"When I get out of here—" Chris motions with his right hand—the one he has the best control over—to indicate the rehab room.

"I'm glad you brought that up," Natalie says, pulling her chair closer.

Chris' recovery is different depending on whom she asks. For Chris, it's far too slow. For his doctors, it's remarkable how much he's improved since the medical shuttle brought him home eight days ago. Natalie had pulled rank to get onboard that shuttle and has had nightmares ever since. The shock of seeing the _Enterprise_ with huge blackened gaps in the hull—the young crew obviously tired but purposeful as they made what repairs they could. Sickbay overflowing, McCoy looking grimmer than usual.

And Chris, drawn and pale and under heavy sedation.

At least the alien parasite has been removed. Whether or not the neurological damage it inflicted is permanent is anyone's guess. When Natalie buttonholes the doctors in private, they shrug and say they're doing all they can.

That's undoubtedly true, but she's angry anyway. Not at the doctors exactly, and not even at the limitations of medicine, but at the situation. Chris doesn't deserve this.

"We need to talk about what to do," she says as Chris lets his spoon fall back onto his plate. He's clearly finished being badgered about eating and Natalie removes his tray.

"I just need to get out of here," he says, heaving backwards in his chair. Whoever shaved him this morning did a poor job, Natalie notices.

"When the doctors say you can," she says, and Chris harrumphs.

"I can now," he says, and she shakes her head.

"You can't even get yourself up without help," she points out. "You're going to need someone…for awhile."

She can tell that eating has wearied him. Leaning his head back against the chair, he closes his eyes briefly.

"Want me to leave?" Natalie asks, and Chris' eyes fly open.

"Of course not. I was just resting my eyes. You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get any sleep around here."

But Natalie knows. Her shoulder is stiff from sleeping on the sofa in the corner of Chris' room—as she has every night since he was moved out of the ICU.

A noise at the door catches her attention and she turns to see Dr. McCoy, PADD in hand, walking in.

"If you're here to see if I ate lunch," Chris says, tilting his head, "I did. Your watchdog made me."

"Be glad she did," McCoy says, pulling a chair across the floor and settling into it next to Natalie. "Otherwise you're never going to get out of here."

"I'm ready to go now," Chris says. "Say the word and spring me out."

McCoy crosses his arms and gives Chris an appraising stare, the kind Natalie has seen him give his staff right before he chews them out about something.

"Captain, I hate to tell you this, but you're not going anywhere," McCoy says. Chris opens his mouth to respond and McCoy hurries on. "At least for a few days. And only then if you have proper support."

"A watchdog."

"A rehabbed place to live, for starters. Someplace with doors big enough for that chair to get through, with sinks you can reach, bed rails."

Natalie watches as Chris' expression falls. He hasn't thought that far ahead, she can tell—he's been so focused on getting out of the hospital that he hasn't had time to dwell on the difficulties he's facing. The mobile chair, for instance. She knows he hates it—resents how people judge him by it, even in the short time he's been in it.

_It hasn't occurred to him that this might be how it always will be._

She takes a breath and tries to listen as McCoy goes on.

"And yes, a watchdog. Someone to help you get settled, at least for a little while."

Chris says nothing but his expression is sour.

"Look," McCoy says, leaning forward, "I know you want to get out of here. The neurospecialists say a couple more days and then we can talk about discharging you. You could make that go faster if you line up things ahead of time. The rehab director's coming by later this afternoon to talk about some options."

"How long—" Chris says, and then falls silent.

For a moment Natalie thinks that McCoy misunderstands what Chris is asking, that he will assume Chris is nailing down the details about his discharge.

But as she watches, she sees a shadow cross McCoy's face and she knows he knows.

 _How long until I can get back to the_ Enterprise?

That's the real question. To his credit, McCoy doesn't dodge it.

"We don't know. That may not be possible."

It's the first time anyone's said it out loud—what Natalie has suspected since she saw Chris in the medical shuttle, his face drained of color, contorted even under heavy sedation.

He's never going back—not to what he was physically, not to the _Enterprise_.

The idea settles like a weight in her chest.

"I see," Chris says.

McCoy bobs his head almost apologetically.

"Well, then," he says, "I'll be back later to check in on you."

In a flurry of motion he stands and exits the room, leaving behind a silence that Natalie finally breaks.

"I want you to come home with me."

Chris doesn't move but continues to stare into the middle distance, clearly seeing nothing.

"Did you hear me? I said I want you to come home with me. It won't be hard to fix the house—"

"No."

Chris shifts in his chair and meets Natalie's gaze.

"Didn't you hear McCoy? This might be as good as it gets," he says.

"Chris—"

"I couldn't do that to you. To Eric."

"You aren't doing anything to us."

"I think we both know better than that."

He looks away then, and Natalie flushes.

_Time for the truth._

"Eric was going to tell you later," she says, folding her hands in her lap, an uncharacteristic primness that catches Chris' attention. "He's taking an apartment in town. I'm staying in the house. I want you come home with me."

She watches the pieces of the puzzle slide together in Chris' expression—first confusion and then anger.

"What are you saying? That you and Eric are separating?"

"This isn't about you," she says quickly, wishing, like a child, that saying it will make it so, knowing he won't believe the lie.

"Natalie," Chris says, the grief in his voice pulling at the weight already in her chest, "you can't do this. I don't want this. You're not thinking this through, or Eric isn't."

She unfolds her hands and fidgets with the hem of her short jacket. How to explain to him that the decision was made long ago but she's been pretending otherwise, that she's been moving along this invisible line without realizing it? The path she thought she was taking—marriage, leaving Starfleet, children—was an illusion, receding from her like the shimmer of water on a hot road, no matter how hard she pursued it.

"I'm not doing this for you," she says at last. "I'm doing this because it's what I need to do for me."

That is the truth, and she feels relief in being able to say it.

"And what about Eric? What about what he needs?"

Chris' voice is almost accusatory—defensive on his brother's behalf. Natalie blinks and tries to steady her voice.

"He's not happy about it," she says. "But it's our decision. Not yours."

"Don't treat me like I'm some goddam invalid! Like I don't have a mind of my own!"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"I'm tired," Chris says suddenly, his words clipped, angry.

He's dismissing her. Her heart races as she tries frantically to think of what to say. Everything that comes to her lips _—"Don't push me away"_ or _"I've always loved you"_ —sounds self-serving, banal.

She can't find the words to make him understand that what she's doing now—what she and Eric are choosing—is not as painful as continuing on as if nothing has changed. As if Chris' injury hasn't rebalanced the equation and forced her to admit that her silence has been unfair to both men.

Chris runs his right hand along a toggle on the arm of the mobile chair, setting the wheels in motion. He turns slowly away from her, saying, "Go home."

The weight in her chest is almost unbearable and he's looking away, but she stands and takes a step toward him before stopping herself. _What did she expect?_ He's always been so protective of Eric—and proud to be so independent.

"No matter what you do," she says softly, "no matter what you say, that doesn't change how I feel. How I've always felt."

She leaves then, the first time in several days that she's been outdoors when the sun is still up. The light is almost startling and she stands for a moment on the steps of the hospital, blinking, blind, trying to see what lies ahead.

X X X X X X X

As he often does, Spock feels a paradoxical twinge of envy and annoyance at the imperturbable expression on his father's face. _To be so controlled, so composed._ Even as he aspires to it, Spock suspects he will never reach that level of equanimity.

These days, especially, his emotions roil just beneath the surface. The people who know him best—his cousins, Nyota—have looked at him with something akin to alarm, though even his crewmates and fellow faculty at the Academy have eyed him askance recently. He reminds himself to relax his jaw, to unfurrow his brow.

The deli where he and his father sit is the one he and Nyota frequented in the past, the one near the faculty apartments. Coming here was a mistake, Spock decides. Instead of focusing on his father's words, he finds himself remembering meals he shared with Nyota.

His throat is oddly constricted and he coughs when he tries to swallow a sip of his tea. Sarek says nothing but pauses in his recitation, watching him intently.

"The council," his father continues, "has made cataloguing the survivors the first priority. They are petitioning the Federation acquisition committee for more hardware resources."

Setting down his cup, Spock nods.

"Suvak says that he can redeploy at least one more technician if you need the assistance," Sarek says, and Spock nods again.

"As you wish."

"Of course, if you do not need the assistance, the technician can continue her work upgrading the medical database."

"I have no preference, Father."

Spock curls his fingers around the tea mug, warming them. In the distance he can see Arun at the counter, flipping idly through a magazine.

"You're the only person I know," Nyota had teased the last time they were here, "who still reads a printed paper," and Arun had laughed—the only time Spock had ever heard the normally taciturn man do so.

The memory is surprisingly painful. Such an innocuous image, too.

He feels another wave of envy at his father's composure.

Even now, even here, after the shock of feeling the ground give way under his feet, watching his wife swept away before him, Sarek betrays no obvious sorrow.

 _At least not on his face._ Through their bond Spock feels an undercurrent of grief—like listening to a swollen river hidden by a screen of trees. As much as he can, Spock tamps down their connection, to afford his father his privacy.

"You seem…distracted," Sarek says, the slight hesitation in his voice an apology. The statement, after all, is almost an insult. Or would be, if Spock were paying closer attention. "We can continue this discussion at a later time if you prefer."

"There is no need."

"If you have things that need attending to?"

"I am almost through packing. The rest can wait."

And suddenly Spock knows what his father is referring to. _Nyota._

On the trip back from Vulcan, Sarek had seen her in Spock's quarters on the _Enterprise_ one morning and had surely surmised what that meant. He said nothing at the time—indeed, has said nothing about it since—but something in his demeanor softened.

Looking up, Spock says, "Shall we continue?"

The slightest shift in Sarek's posture—and then he takes Spock at his word and continues listing supplies they need to requisition and personnel who have offered to help once a relocation site is determined.

As his father talks, Spock becomes aware of a distant rushing noise, faint at first and gradually growing so loud that he struggles to hear over it. With the noise comes an increase in the temperature in the room, the air growing so hot and moist that he feels beads of water collecting on his brow.

Still, Sarek talks on, as if he is unaware of the intrusive sound, the oppressive heat.

 _A malfunction in the environmental controls?_ Spock looks up at the vents in the ceiling, turns his palm up and lifts his hand, feeling for a blast of air.

"Spock?"

He's aware of his father's concern as he stands and tilts his head toward the ceiling vents. The sound pulses louder—and then with a shock he realizes that what he hears is the sound of his own heartbeat, that he's sweaty and hot with fury.

"Excuse me, Father," he says, almost stumbling away from the small table in the back of the deli. As quickly as he can, he makes his way up a narrow aisle of canned and boxed convenience foods, Arun setting aside his magazine and eyeing him as he hurries to the door.

Although he doesn't look back, he's sure his father is watching him, perhaps betraying his concern with a quizzical expression.

The outside air is cold and wet, typical for late February. Ordinarily Spock finds such weather uncomfortable, but today he welcomes it. His face is flushed, his uniform too warm and binding. Without conscious thought, he takes off in a brisk walk across the commons toward the student dorms.

"Your Starfleet training will finally be put to good purpose," one of the Vulcan elders had said to him yesterday, and from across the room at the Vulcan consulate he felt his father react—one shoulder lifting slightly, his head turning a fraction as if wanting to better hear what Spock might say in response.

But Spock said nothing at all. The rushing noise in his ears had ticked up a notch then—and the warmth under his collar and across his cheeks.

 _Anger_ , he realizes now—how odd that he hadn't recognized it at the time.

Perhaps because he is angry all the time now, because rage has become his default since his mother slipped out of his reach, he has become used to it. _Is that even possible?_ To be consumed by a single emotion?

Dimly he is aware that the few cadets he passes on the paved pathway detour widely as he approaches. Nyota's dorm looms up ahead and he slows, catching his breath.

She's there, he's certain, though they haven't communicated since that first day back in San Francisco. Yesterday he sent her a brief message—"I will be home after 1600. Can you come by?"—but he's heard nothing from her. If he could talk to her, explain in more detail why the elders have asked him to join them—make her understand that this is not what he wants.

If he could, then what? Would his own fury diminish? Would hers?

He steps off the path and slips his comm from his pocket. Going inside and asking to see her would rouse unwanted commentary. Suddenly the foolhardiness of approaching her here is obvious. He taps a message on his comm instead: "I will be home after 1800. Will you come by?" Hesitating, he changes it to read, "Will you please come by?"

From here he can see a hover bus making its way toward the stop near the dorm and he snaps his comm closed. He hurries forward and is glad that the bus is almost empty. Sliding into the front seat behind the autopilot, he watches the scenery slipping past, barely seeing it, surprised when Starfleet's hangar deck comes into view.

He's promised the elders that he would arrange transportation for a group of Vulcan scientists stranded on a research outpost in the Outer Ring. It's the sort of task that consumes his time—that will continue to demand his attention for the foreseeable future.

 _The sort of task that will_ _put his Starfleet training to use_.

He tamps down a wave of despair.

Not surprisingly, the hangar deck is relatively quiet. Except for several construction workers in the distance, Spock sees no one as he makes his way to the main transportation kiosk. Scanning the lists of military transports available, he flicks to the screen where the commercial flights are posted. An industrial barge is scheduled to leave Spacedock two days from now, its flight plan taking it within a parsec of the research facility in the Outer Ring. Within moments he books it for the Vulcan scientists.

If Nyota had responded to his message, his comm would have chimed—but he pulls it out of his pocket and glances at it anyway.

Nothing.

He doesn't blame her. What, really, is left to say?

Quite a lot, actually. Such as his feelings for her—never articulated, at least not with words.

The rushing noise in his ears threatens to overwhelm him and he takes a deep breath and parks his hands behind his back. A contingent of cadets marches in step past the line of shuttles being serviced.

There next to one of them is a shadowy figure, something about him strangely familiar.

"Father?"

That his father would be concerned about him enough to follow him here is not surprising. Spock knows he must have appeared irrational at the deli. He steps lightly across the tarmac.

The dark-robed man turns slowly.

And this time, Spock literally loses his breath.

Not his father—but—

A cascade of emotions and revelations. He hears himself on the bridge lecturing the crew about the possibility of time travel, hears McCoy's incredulous, "Are you actually suggesting they're from the future?"

Hears again the argument with Kirk about the disruption in the time continuum, hears Nyota's succinct "An alternate reality," summing up the ridiculous, impossible, unheard-of but logically inescapable conclusion.

A time traveler, here.

Himself.

Fascinating.

"I am not our father," his future self says, and Spock knows, _knows_ , that the next words will both honest and painful. "There are so few Vulcans left, we cannot afford to ignore each other."

The words say so many things.

_We are both suffering._

_We need each other._

His counterpart must have become trapped in this time when Nero and his ship came through the singularity. If knowledge of the future—or in this case, of his future self—can alter the present, then revealing himself to Spock is at best risky and at worst illogical. Why do so now? Why not earlier?

He asks.

The answer is frankly baffling. His future self alludes to what has gone on before in another timeline—a friendship with James Kirk, a career in Starfleet. A maddening statement that Spock _cannot yet realize_ the pieces of the puzzle—yet.

But Kirk does, apparently. That idea is annoying.

"How did you persuade him to keep your _secret_?"

The intonation is intentional, almost accusatory. If revealing the future is dangerous—if Spock cannot understand the implications—then the same should be true for anyone.

His older self accepts the rebuke with more grace than Spock expects—the slightest shrug, a tone of voice bordering on sheepish, a skittering past responsibility: "He inferred that universe-ending paradoxes would ensue should he break his promise."

"You lied."

The words slip out before Spock can stop himself. His own lie _—"I will be back"—_ has troubled him since he uttered it to Nyota on the transporter pad. That his words proved prescient has not absolved him of his intent when he said them.

_I will be back._

Knowing that the odds were high that he would not be, he said them hoping they were true but knowing they were not—a lie, and an illogical hope bound up together.

"A gamble," he amends.

"An act of faith," his future self says, and for the first time in days Spock feels the heaviness in his side lighten just a bit.

Not a lie after all—not looked at this way.

But the heaviness returns as his counterpart speaks of Starfleet. Spock feels a wave of impatience. Surely he knows what the Vulcan elders have asked of the survivors.

"Spock, in this case, do yourself a favor. Put aside logic. Do what feels right."

And then, most illogically of all, a wish for good luck.

Before he can fully process what is happening, his counterpart is gone.

_Do yourself a favor._

His mother's words, often.

_Do yourself a favor and clean up your room before I get back from the market. Do yourself a favor and write your Aunt Cecilia a thank you note. Do yourself a favor and get some sleep before your exam tomorrow._

And the last time he remembers her saying it, "Do yourself a favor and talk to your father. Don't leave angry, Spock. You might not be home for some time."

That had proven truer than either of them had imagined. He had slipped out of the house early and made his way to Shi'Kahr alone to the transport station, taking a shuttle to Earth and his new life at Starfleet Academy.

Against his father's wishes. He can make up for that now, if he goes with the elders.

_Do yourself a favor._

The rest of the advice is even more troubling—to abandon what defines him as a Vulcan? Is that what lies in his future?

Spock is not the same person as his counterpart; his destiny is not determined, no matter what the other Spock implies. On the other hand, as much as he wants to _do himself a favor_ , the heavy weight of tradition and the expectations of his father and the elders make that seem…if not foolish, then at least selfish.

"You can be in two places at once," his counterpart had said, but that wasn't exactly the truth.

Spock stands for a few more moments beside the shuttle, his gaze on his reflection in the wet pavement.

He's never been one to seek out advice, to, as his mother said, _lay out his cards on the table_ and ask someone to help him decide a course of action.

Now, however, might be the time to do that.

He turns and heads out the hangar deck.

X X X X X X X

"Help me get out of this monkey suit."

That's as much of an apology as Chris is going to give. As he fidgets with the snaps along his shoulder, he watches Natalie move smoothly across the room toward him.

 _Apology accepted_.

They've known each other so long that much of what they say is unspoken. It's both comforting and troubling to be understood this well.

Natalie is attentive without being intrusive. She waits until he can't reach the last snaps before she reaches forward deftly and helps him out of his dress uniform jacket.

Thankfully the ceremony had been brief. Kirk was appropriately subdued, at least until the end when his crewmates and faculty members broke into applause. To his surprise, Chris had not been sad—had not even felt a ghost of regret.

At least, not for handing over the reins of the ship to Kirk. That hunch Chris followed three years ago in a bar in Riverside has played out well.

He watches as Natalie hangs up his uniform and slides it into a transparent bag for carrying. His other things—a few clothes, his toiletries—are already packed in a small duffel on the bed.

As glad as he is to be leaving the hospital, he's anxious about it, too.

Not characteristic of him. He's more a look before you leap kind of guy—or at least that's what Natalie has told him more than once.

What was he telling Spock just a few minutes ago outside headquarters? Trust your instincts?

He hadn't expected to see Spock again. The last time he had seen him, he had told Chris that he was resigning his commission and joining the Vulcan relocation project. At the time Chris had said little—not that he hadn't thought Spock was making a mistake, because he did, but because he couldn't bring himself to say anything negative to someone who had already lost so much.

As much as Chris has lost, he hasn't lost as much as Spock has. Chris, at least, still has his world. His family. Even his career, though his promotion to the admiralty feels like an unwanted sinecure compared to the daily running of a starship.

"In light of—recent events—I feel compelled to do as the elders have asked," Spock said, and Chris waved his hand impatiently.

"But what about what you want? What you've worked for?"

"My personal preference is immaterial. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one."

"Most of the time, maybe," Chris said, and Spock had tilted his head. "But maybe this is that one time when it isn't right. There are exceptions to every rule."

Spock had blinked—in surprise?—and had said slowly, "But my father—"

"You and your father are different people," Chris said. "Sure, he might be disappointed in what you decide, but you're family. You'll always be family. He'll understand, eventually."

Spock had inclined his head. Chris had the impression that the young man would have said more but Natalie came up then.

"Need a ride?" she said, and Chris had looked up at Spock quizzically.

"Anything else?"

"No, admiral," Spock said, and for the first time since his promotion, Chris didn't miss being called captain.

"Wish I could have been more help," Chris said as Natalie disengaged the mobile chair brake.

"You have, admiral," Spock said before he turned and headed stiffly away.

"I'm not going to be a burden," Chris says now as he pulls the duffel from the bed to his lap. "I won't have you being my nursemaid."

"I'm not signing up for that," Natalie says, and Chris catches her eye.

"Then what exactly _are_ you signing up for?"

His words sound harsher than he intends, but they have to be said.

Just as the awkwardness with Eric has to be faced, is being faced. He hasn't seen him in a week but they've spoken twice by comm. Finding their way forward is going to take some time. Some distance. But they've faced other losses before and weathered them. They are, after all, family.

"I'm not sure," Natalie says. "Lots of things have changed lately. I'm still feeling a little…unsettled."

"We don't have to do this," Chris says, and Natalie sighs and sits on the bed, facing him.

"Yes, we do."

He starts to answer and she raises her hand to hush him.

"I have to. Because this is what I should have done a long time ago. What _we_ should have done. Maybe it's a mistake, and maybe in a couple of weeks we'll both hate each other and be sorry. But we'll _know_. We won't just wonder about what might have been."

It's a confessional speech for her and it seems to tire her. Chris reaches out his right hand and turns his fingers up, an invitation. She slides her hand into his.

"Then we'll leap together."

She laughs, and he smiles at this beginning. And at this end.

 _Goodbye,_ he thinks, imagining the _Enterprise_ in orbit above them, Kirk on the bridge, his crew around him, making ready for their first real voyage.

This life here—it's not the voyage he imagined for himself, but it's the one in front of him.

"Let's go home," he says, and Natalie gets up and sets his chair in motion.

**Fin**

**A/N:  If you've enjoyed this story, let me know!  If you want to see more Spock/Uhura fics here, let me know that, too.  Most of the readers on AO3 seem to prefer slash, but my stories stay within canon and don't stray into slash, genderbender, or AU stories.  That doesn't mean that I don't have interesting gay characters, characters who struggle with their sexual identity, or occasions where characters might feel the universe is out of whack!  Working within the restraints of canon is actually quite challenging, making sure that characters stay "in character" while still expanding and exploring who they are.  I like that challenge, and since you've read this far, you must, too!  
**

  
**Thanks for reading!  Holler if you want to read more.  It's lonely to write without much feedback.  
**

 


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